


All's Fair in Love and Comic Books

by sockpuppeteer



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 06:51:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 48,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16827382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sockpuppeteer/pseuds/sockpuppeteer
Summary: There’s something in the air in Brooklyn, but Frank doesn't realise exactly what until he stumbles into what could never really be described as a job interview with Gerard, who works at the local bookstore. Add tall, Grant and handsome into the mix, and we all know where this is going. The trope-tastic bookstore OT3 AU nobody asked for.





	All's Fair in Love and Comic Books

**Author's Note:**

> I had SO MUCH FUN writing this you guys. A neverending boatload of thanks to Aethel for the incredible artwork! If you haven’t already, please please check it out [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16817332). It’s beautiful and just how I pictured things, especially Frank and Dewees in their apartment - when you see it, you’ll know XD To Trojie for helping me settle on an idea, to Milo for reading and re-reading and re-reading over and over again, listening to me rant, talking ideas over and cheerleading. To Evan for proofreading and working through the kinks when I got stuck. To the mods for making this exchange exist and to all the awesome creators and co-creators for keeping it going year after year!

Art by aethel

There’s something in the air in Brooklyn. Something heavy and tangible, an anxious, thrumming energy that follows Frank wherever he goes, surrounds every one of the scarfed, booted bundles scurrying down the sidewalk and fuck, he loves it. It makes him feel like he’s a part of something big and exciting, like destiny is lurking just around the next corner, lighting up under a subway sign.

Destiny, maybe, just not a fucking _job_.

He’s sick of trawling job sites and signing up for temp agencies, turning up for interviews and watching them double-take at his tattoos and piercings and hair which is, as his mother would say, in dire need of a trim. At least he can get interviews that way; going door-to-door asking about job vacancies just gets him everything from the ever-polite, _I’m sorry, son, but I’m afraid we’re not hiring right now_ , to sneers and scoffs from the assholes who don’t think he’s worth speaking to. Fuck, he’d mistakenly enquired in a tiny sports bar that was clearly a front for fucking Supremacists Unite or something, because he’d barely made it out without a black eye and a broken nose that time.

Jesus Christ, this is Brooklyn, not fucking Utah.

Long story short, Frank is feeling sorry for himself. He’s just bombed another fucking interview - entry-level data administration, because the well-coiffed girl with the long nails had more experience… at fucking _entry-level_ , what the _fuck_ \- and the sky is looking ominously grey overhead, which is just great, because Frank’s umbrella was blown to shreds the last time he ventured out and he still hasn’t gotten around to replacing it.

Up ahead, a shining, green beacon of hope beckons him like a siren. Frank needs a fucking coffee like he needs to breathe right now. He eyes the sky warily, sends up a quick prayer that the rain holds off a little longer, and decides it’s worth the risk.

The bell tinkles overhead and the noise from inside the coffee shop drowns out the noise of the traffic outside. The strong, bittersweet smell of ground beans slaps Frank in the face and he inhales gratefully.

Apparently, the rest of the fucking world has had the same idea as Frank, because the line winds around the edge of the store and back on itself. With a groan, Frank joins the end and stuffs his earbuds in his ears. Rain or no rain, he’s committed to this now.

Five and a half tracks later, the barista - a guy with floppy blonde hair and a too-bright smile that makes Frank’s eyes ache - turns to him, and Frank tugs his earbuds back out, letting them drop and hang forlornly from the neck of his coat.

“Hey,” Frank says, “Uh, gimme a grande soy hazelnut latte to go for Frank, please.”

“Sorry, man.” The barista’s overly tan face turns apologetic and patronising at the same time, and Frank barely resists the urge to punch him in the face. “We’re all out of soy.”

Frank blinks, expecting the guy to crack a smile at his own joke. He doesn’t.

“Are you serious? You’re out of milk?!” Frank grouses, probably a little louder than he means to. “You’re fucking Starbucks!”

The barista raises both eyebrows, but it isn’t shock on his face. His mouth tightens.

“Hey buddy, I just work here.”

Frank runs a hand over his face and shakes his head. _You’re being a dick._

“I’m sorry, dude. I’ve had a really shitty day. Didn’t mean to get all up in your face. Sorry.”

The guy shrugs one shoulder and does crack a smile this time. “S’no big. Sorry about the milk thing. Can I get you something else?”

Frank sighs heavily. He really does need fucking coffee. “Americano I guess, with a shit ton of sugar.”

The guy scribbles on the side of the cup and glances up at Frank again. “Double shot of caramel?”

He’s cute. Frank grins.

“Sure.”

They do the age-old song and dance of exchanging money for goods, and Frank joins the cluster of desperate coffee-lovers gathered to one side of the register. He sticks a single earbud back in his ear and taps his foot as a surreptitious way to move to the beat in his bones.

He zones out and almost misses his name when they call it, but not a moment too soon Frank has his coffee in his hands and is back out on the sidewalk, blowing on it desperately. The first sip still burns his tongue, fucking milk-less monstrosity. While Frank is still bemoaning his shitty luck, a fat drop of rain hits him right between the eyes.

_Great._

Before he can blink, the rain is coming down in sheets. Frank hurries from the safety of one storefront to another, but before long there aren’t any awnings left to hide under and he’s left with the horrible reality of having to make the too-long walk to the train station with only a sad cup of coffee for moral support.

With a deep breath, he dashes out into the downpour and is instantly drenched.

Frank quickly decides to rethink his plan.

Instead of tempting his painfully unhelpful immune system further, he ducks through the nearest doorway without stopping to check the windows or the sign above the door.

It’s a bookstore. _Halle-fucking-lujah._

Frank hasn’t had much time in the city to do any exploring that hasn’t been around the buildings he’s been interviewing in or those that line the dull walk from the station back to his apartment. He’s found the grocery store - he fucking lives above it, it’d be hard not to - and a little music store on the way from the station into Brooklyn proper - but that’s the full extent of interesting stores on Frank’s radar so far. This place is a very, very welcome addition.

It’s nothing like the chain bookstores with their huge glass frontage and clean white tiles and bright lights overhead. This place has soft yellow bulbs hanging bare from the ceiling and in lamps on little side tables. The carpet is thick and heavily patterned, but so threadbare that no design in the world is going to hide its age. There is a long counter side-on to the entrance with a closed door behind it, but nobody manning the register. Shelves line the walls and extend out into the room to create little nooks all the way down the length of the store, some housing mismatched wooden benches, soft armchairs and, it looks like, whatever other pieces of furniture the owner could find in the local thrift store. Anywhere there is a table big enough, books are piled and stacked high, spine-on and face-out to display the titles the store most wants to sell, and the shelves themselves are full to bursting.

It hit the charming nail right on the head, and Frank falls instantly in love.

He slowly works his way from the front to the back of the store, trailing his fingers along the shelves as he scans the titles and inhales the soft, musty smell of old paper and dust. He lingers in the fiction section, plucking a few interesting-looking spines out and enjoying the blurbs of some of his old favorites, then continues his exploration until he finds himself in the back corner of the store amongst a wash of bright colors.

Comic books.

Frank’s grin - which had appeared somewhere between _L_ in fiction and the crime section bringing up the rear - widen even further, and he _feels_ his eyes sparkling. It isn’t the biggest selection he’s ever seen, but it is easily the most diverse, with barely a caped hero or an Archie in sight. What there is is a ton of _Sandman_ and _Watchmen_ and _Doom Patrol_ , a huge chunk of _Vertigo_ spines and enough indie offerings with titles like _Good-bye, Chunky Rice_ and _King Cat_ to pull a happy giggle from Frank’s throat. He picks up a copy of _Werewolf By Night_ , then spots the full trade of _Arkham Asylum_ and quickly puts _Werewolf By Night_ back. Fuck, he really can’t afford to be buying books right now, but… he sits down anyway.

It’s warm in the bookstore, and over the next hour Frank gradually sheds his layers, piling his hat, scarf and gloves on the little table next to his growing pile of books. He drapes his coat and jacket over the back of the squishy chair he’s chosen in the corner of the science fiction and fantasy section, followed later by his hoodie, then his button-down, until he’s left in just his t-shirt and undershirt. He reads through first chapter after first chapter, carefully so as not to break any of the spines, and sets a couple aside that he has to take home with him to finish. He returns those that don’t grab his attention to their respective shelves - in the right places, because there’s nothing more irritating than finding _The Princess Diaries_ hiding in amongst Dean Koontz and Adam Nevill.

He’s a chapter and a half into _The Historian_ , already enough in love with the elegant prose and layered storytelling that he’s struggling to put it down even though his eyes are beginning to droop, when a voice comes out of nowhere and scares the living bejeezus out of him. Frank jumps about three feet into the air and falls back to the ground with a white-knuckled hand gripping the arm of the chair.

“ _Jesus,_ ” he gasps, breathing deeply to calm his racing heart.

“Sorry,” comes the voice again. It’s pleasant, smiling through the apology, and the soft Jersey accent warms Frank’s bones. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Just. We’re closing now, so…”

Frank turns to see the guy attached to it as his pulse realizes he isn’t about to be killed and starts settling down. He’s in all black from head to toe - black button down, black jeans tucked into heavy black boots, black hair falling into his eyes in a tangle and, Frank notices, short black thumbnails. His thin lips are smiling, lopsided and a little awkward, eyes darting around Frank’s face like making eye contact is next to impossible, and his fingers twist together in front of him.

Frank grins widely, hoping to assuage some of the guy’s nerves.

“Sorry, man!” He says easily, jumping up and starting to throw his layers back on, button-down and hoodie first. “Have you cashed up, or can I buy some of these?” He gestures to the pile still on the table, mentally calculating whether he can afford the book and the Arkham trade, then stuffs his arms into his jacket, wriggling to get his hands out the ends without bunching up his shirtsleeves. Coat next, same technique.

“No, yeah, sure, of course,” the guy says, stumbling a little over his words. “Absolutely. I’ll just- I’ll be at the register when you’re ready.”

Frank looks up to smile his thanks, but the guy has already turned and is walking away. He shoves his hat and gloves into his pockets and folds his scarf over his arm; it’s way too warm in here to bundle up. He glances down at the table again, thinks fuck it, and picks up both books along with issue one of Flaming Carrot. It’s like two dollars, okay, it’s not going to break him.

He makes his way to the counter with some haste, and sees the guy waiting sort-of-patiently for him. He’s doodling absently on the back of a flyer in biro, but he shoves it away before Frank can get close enough to see what it was. Probably for the best, really - Frank’s kind of unashamedly nosey and has never really had much of a personal space bubble. One of his better qualities, if you ask him.

As he’s sliding his books onto the counter, Frank notices the flyers the guy was drawing on - they’re hidden behind two stacks of identical paperbacks, some little black boxes and a stapler, but if he leans just right, he can see the big, bold lettering declaring ‘HELP WANTED’.

Frank’s eyes light up.

“Hey,” he says, catching the guy’s attention before he can pick anything up to scan through the register. The guy’s eyes flicker over to him, over to the door, then back to Frank again.

“You’re hiring?” Frank asks, tipping his chin towards the buried flyers.

The guy’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly and he shoves the pile further behind the register.

“Oh, uh, ye- well,” he stumbles, running a hand through his rats nest of hair, “Well, I, uh, I mean, not really?”

“Not really?” Frank presses, tilting his head to one side curiously and smiling a little.

“No, I mean, uh…” The guy’s eyes start flickering all over the place again and he reaches for Frank’s books.

“Come on, man,” Frank wheedles with a little grin, ducking his head to be seen from underneath the hair now flopping into the guy’s face, “Are you? This is like, my ideal job, I swear…”

The guy scans the first paperback and taps in the price. Frank straightens and gazes vaguely up at the titles proudly displayed on the glass shelves behind the counter.

“I mean,” he continues, half to himself, “Aside from playing music, or, or I guess selling mus-”

“You play?” The guy interrupts, and Frank looks back to see eyes peeking out from that dark fall of hair.

Sensing a way in, his grin widens.

“Yeah, man!” He says happily. So maybe the job was a shot in the dark, but Frank wasn’t averse to a little shameless self-promotion when it fell into his lap. “Me and my buddies play together, we’re kinda punk, kinda hardcore. You should totally come to our next show!”

“You’re in a band?” Frank nods emphatically and the dude’s eyes practically fall out of his head.

“Awesome…” he breathes, and Frank sees his eyes flick down to the Arkham trade he’d just picked up off the counter, and the Flaming Carrot comic hiding underneath. He glances back up at Frank, almost too quickly for Frank to notice. Almost.

“I’ve totally worked in retail before!” Frank insists, gesturing wildly with his hands. “And I can cover the ink, well, most of it, I mean, my hands are kind of a lost cause but-”

The guy scoffs and Frank bristles automatically before he sees the guy smiling under all that hair. He shakes it out of his face and slides Frank’s books into a plain white plastic bag, then sets it on the counter. Eventually, just when Frank thinks he’s fudged it, he looks Frank right in the eyes. Properly, this time. Frank almost startles.

“You’ve worked in retail before?” He asks, and Frank nods, for once keeping his mouth shut. “And you like books?”

Frank smiles his best, prize-winning smile, wide-eyed and earnest.”Totally!”

“Favorite book?” He asks.

“Catcher in the Rye.”

The guy raises his eyebrows and looks slightly impressed. “Second favorite?”

Frank grins. “Harry Potter.”

The guy giggles, nose wrinkling, and shoots him another question. “Favorite superhero.”

“Batman.”

“Vigilantes don’t count.”

“They totally count!” Frank almost shouted, taming himself just in time.

“Fine,” the guy sighed, “Favorite superhero with powers.”

“Aquaman.” Frank says with a smirk, and the guy visibly wilts, shoulders sagging.

“Now you’re not even trying!”

Frank shrugs and shoots the guy a cheeky look. “Is this a debate or a job interview? I’d try a lot harder for a job interview, promise.”

The guy folds his arms. “And if it was a job interview, what would you say?”

Frank leans on the counter and rests his chin on his hands, batting his eyelashes. “I’d ask who your favorite was and agree with you.”

With a snort, the guy shakes his head. “Whatever. If I was stupid enough to offer you a job, would you try and steal from us?”

Frank splutters taken aback by the sudden change, and the guy shoots him a look.

“Hey, I’m from New Jersey. I gotta ask.”

“Me too!” Frank grins.

The guy just looks at him again, twisting his lips to one side. Frank can already tell that he’s trying not to smile. “Well in that case, I definitely gotta ask.”

Frank cackles and puts on his best you-can-bring-me-home-to-your-mom-I-swear face.

“I’m not a thief, or a con-man, or a criminal.” He looks at his hands. “I guess I just kinda look like one.”

The guy softens and shrugs one shoulder. “The ink isn’t a problem, man.”

Frank smiles self-deprecatingly. “Thanks, I- Wait. Is this a job interview?”

“Do you want it to be?”

Frank’s eyes bug. “Fu- He- Yes, I want it to be! I mean, I, we can totally start over, I can do better, I-”

The guy laughs, nose wrinkling, and waves a hand. “You’re doing great. One more question.”

“Hit me.” Frank says, schooling his face into something he hopes looks attentive.

“When can you start?”

Art by aethel

Monday arrives with a screeching that sets Frank’s teeth on edge. He bats at the alarm clock in the dark until it quiets, then buries his head under his pillow with a long, drawn-out groan. Celebratory drinks the night before his first day at the bookstore probably wasn’t the cleverest idea he and Dewees have ever had. But fuck it, neither of them have ever been called ‘clever’ in their entire lives. Frank’s report cards had always been to the tune of could do better if he applied himself and Frank’s intelligence is scuppered by his lack of focus, and he doesn’t even want to think about what James’s must have said.

Frank rolls out of bed with a yawn, then a muffled curse as he bangs his toe on the shabby old coffee table they’d found on the side of the street last week. He stumbles into the pathetically tiny bathroom to take a piss and wash his hands, then stumbles back out and over to the kitchenette to put on a pot of coffee. Rather than watching it desperately as it brews - which is really fucking tempting with the headache he can feel behind his eyes - Frank puts the pull-out couch back together, stuffing his sheet, blankets and pillow in the storage space underneath the cushions. When he turns back, the coffee pot is still fucking brewing, dripping delicious, hot ambrosia torturously slowly. There’s barely half a cup yet, and Frank stretches, rubbing at his eyes in frustration.

He could have breakfast. The cupboards are depressingly empty, but there are a few Lucky Charms left in the bottom of the box. As Frank looks down at the tiny, pastel-colored rainbows and horseshoes, his stomach turns over dangerously.

Nope, maybe breakfast isn’t such a good idea after all.

Hambone ambles out of the bedroom when the coffee maker is two-thirds done, pours the coffee into a mug with his eyes closed, and downs it in three quick gulps.

Frank yelps, feeling his heart break.

Hambone blinks his eyes open and looks between Frank and the coffee pot.

“Aww shit, man, were you waiting for that?”

Frank whines and sinks down onto a rickety kitchen chair and lays his head on his arms.

“Sorry dude.” Hambone says, and he sounds genuine. Frank peers up at him sideways, sees the apologetic look on his face, and can’t be that mad at him. Ugh, all Frank wanted in the world right now was some fucking coffee.

“Just… make a proper pot while I shower, asshole.”

The bathroom in the apartment he shares with Hambone and Dewees is smaller than small, most certainly not big enough for three (mostly) grown men to share, but they make do. Frank, as the earliest riser, always showers first - before seven am, seven-fifteen at the absolute latest. Hambone gets his time in the bathroom after that, and James will hurriedly brush his teeth before racing out the door at eight forty, perpetually late as always. He’ll take a shower when he gets home, usually, or before crashing into bed in the room he and Hambone share. Separate beds mind you, they were very clear on that when they’d found this place. The rent is fucking extortionate for the shithole it is, but between the three of them, they make do. It’ll be easier now Frank has a fucking job, hell yeah motherfucker!

The bathroom itself is dull, expressionless white tile everywhere Frank looks - when he bothers to look - with dingy brown grime crusting in the corners and around the edges of everything that won’t come off no matter how hard Frank scrubs. The bathroom is his chore - James took the kitchenette when they moved in, and Hambone agreed to the living space and bedroom, which sounded good to Frank at the time but in reality just means Hambone might unearth the vacuum one of their mom’s sent them one day. The bathtub is barely large enough for one person to sit down in with an old shower head running up off a mixer tap and a stained curtain keeping the water off the floor. The toilet is stuffed in between the bathtub and a half-size sink, probably originally meant for use in a downstairs cloakroom-style bathroom and not intended to be used by three guys, but what can you do? Frank’s not quite gross enough to brush his teeth while using the toilet, but he could if he wanted to, which is… something.

Frank turns on the shower and brushes his teeth while the water warms up, then showers quickly, washing his hair and scrubbing himself clean ready for his first day at the store. He feels infinitely better afterwards, his headache still lingering but most of the fuzziness of sleep cleared, and he’s able to shave in the mirror without cutting his face all to shit.

There’s a blissfully full pot of coffee waiting for him when he’s done, and Frank sits and drinks one whole, wonderful cup with a towel around his waist, dripping onto the carpet. The kitchen is just as bleak and white as the bathroom, three dull, white, laminated chipboard cabinets at the bottom and two over with a sink sunken into the top and an ancient freestanding oven to the side. The counter space is nonexistent, just room for the coffee maker next to the sink, so on the rare occasion one of them actually cooks something, they have a tiny kitchen table they’ve stuffed in between the couch and their health hazard of a fridge-freezer that gets used for everything from food prep area to workspace to this-is-a-good-place-to-leave-all-my-shit-until-someone-beats-me-with-it-or-throws-it-out spot.

Frank pours another cup of coffee, making sure to leave enough for Dewees when he eventually makes it out of bed, and sips it slowly with a couple of painkillers while he gets dressed. The guy - Gerard, Frank had discovered once he’d offered him the job after the strangest interview ever - hadn’t really specified what Frank should wear, but Frank had enough black to be able to mostly copy what he’d seen Gerard wearing, so that would have to do until he could ask. He’d washed his smartest black jeans - no holes! Frank’s mother would be so proud - over the weekend and had hung a black shirt up in the bathroom last night in the hope that the steam from the shower would help the creases drop out. Frank can’t take any credit for the idea - Google is a fucking lifesaver - but it seems to have worked, and he retrieves it from the back of the bathroom door and puts it on over a black t-shirt.

He peers out of the window, relieved to see that although the ground is wet, the sky is mercifully clear of heavy, black clouds. He finishes dressing, adding socks and shoes and an extra few layers on top of his shirt, and is finishing his second coffee when Dewees stumbles out of the bedroom. Frank waves goodbye, grabs his bag and blows an obnoxious kiss to him as he heads out of the door. Dewees just grunts in reply.

Frank is feeling far more awake after a shower and two coffees than he had been earlier, and his headache is beginning to wane. He jumps down the stairs two at a time and takes a flying leap from the fifth down to the bottom, landing firmly with a grin of triumph. Now why the fuck can’t he do that with anyone else around to see it?

He passes the mailbox cubbies on his left, a pile of newspapers and old magazines rapidly becoming a comfortable place to sleep on the floor beneath them, and grabs the main door handle. As expected, it sticks, and Frank wiggles it and tugs the door just so, pushes it with his foot, and it clicks open. Hambone had spent a good twenty minutes teaching Frank how to do it after he got stuck in the building on his first night. Dewees had spent the same amount of time pointing and laughing at him when he’d found out.

Thankfully no clouds have suddenly appeared in the time it took Frank to come downstairs - shut up, it’s happened in the past, okay - and he steps out onto the sidewalk. It’s quiet this early in the morning, still a little too early for the rush of workers racing into Brooklyn proper, and Frank can enjoy the walk to the station - as much as he’s able to, anyway. It always looks better at night, if he’s being honest, with the bright storefronts and street lamps bringing a sense of excitement and beauty to the area that just isn’t there during the day.

But at night his chances of getting shot at are about eighty percent higher than during the day, so… there’s that.

On that train of thought, their apartment isn’t exactly in the best of neighborhoods. Frank hasn’t dared tell his mother about it, because he just knows she’d have a fucking coronary if he told her he was renting a place in Brownsville. Whenever she asks he just says it’s near Brooklyn and everything is totally fine, mom, honest. At least it’s on a bustling street, stores lining the first floor level with apartments rising up above, so the chances of actually getting shot at are less than if he were living, say, down the street behind the Dollar Tree, or in the horrific concrete abomination high rises he could see from the roof of their building. Their place is on the fourth floor above a store proudly proclaiming to be the PARTY PLAZA of Pitkin Avenue, which at one time or another, the store owner assures them, used to sell an all manner of party regalia and fancy dress. Now they just sell groceries.

Frank kind of loves that they kept the name, because what good party doesn’t need food? It’s also open 24/7, so when they get the munchies in the middle of the night, all they have to do is tumble down the stairs and have everything they ever dreamed of right at their fingertips.

Rockaway Avenue Station is barely ten minutes on foot, but Frank makes the walk last fifteen just because he can. It’s cold again today, but not snowing yet. Apparently that’s unlikely until after Christmas, which is kind of disappointing. The sun is shining though, and Frank ambles along with his gloved hands stuffed in his pockets, watching his shadow twist and turn around him until the station bridge looms up ahead. He passes a bunch more run down high rise apartments, then a deli, a Popeye’s, another deli, and another fucking Popeye’s within all of sixty seconds, and jogs up the green metal steps, his boots clanging all the way up. Immediately, he regrets it, because the cold air always wreaks havoc on his chest. Other people walk by him while he’s happily hacking up a lung in the corner, probably assuming he’s high or drunk or both, and he swipes his Metrocard and makes it onto the platform just in time to leap on the Manhattan-bound 3 train before the doors whoosh closed. His messenger bag slams against his legs and Frank glares at it.

Now that rush hour is fifteen minutes closer than it was when he’d left the apartment, the train is busy. So busy that Frank can’t find a seat in this carriage, or the next, or the next. He shuffles into a spot by the doors and hangs onto a railing with a sigh. He’d been hoping to start reading his Arkham trade on the journey but that seems unlikely now. Maybe he’ll get lucky and someone will get off the Manhattan-bound train before they reach Manhattan… Frank almost laughs to himself at the impossibility, but catches it just in time - no need to be the train carriage’s resident crazy person.

Thirty minutes later, the train pulls into Borough Hill and Frank hops off, keeping a firm hold on his bag this time. It’s a short walk to the bookstore, and although it doesn’t take him past the Starbucks this time, he’s early enough that there’s time to detour for a proper coffee. Frank picks up a spare latte too; either Gerard will appreciate it, or Frank can have another, win-slash-fucking-win.

The store had been closed and dark when he’d walked past on the way to Starbucks, but when Frank comes back with the coffees, Gerard is there fumbling with a huge bundle of keys. He drops them, curses, and startles when Frank comes up behind him.

“Sorry,” Frank grins, not feeling terribly sorry after the fright Gerard had given him the last time he was here. He holds out the coffee, hoping to appease his sort-of-not-really boss on his first day. “Brought you Starbucks.”

Gerard’s eyes go wide and they light up as his hands grab for the steaming cup and he says, “Oh my God I fucking love you.”

Frank thinks that’s a bit heavy for their second meeting ever, but whatever, he’ll take it. He grabs the keys from the ground while Gerard takes a long, long sip, and lets himself be directed to unlock the three different locks on the front door. Inside, Frank follows Gerard around the store as he flicks about fifty different switches to turn on various lights and heating and A/C, unlocks a bunch of different doors, muttering the purpose of each to Frank as he goes - fire escape, customer bathroom, office, stockroom - until they reach the break room.

Frank follows Gerard’s lead then and starts stripping off his layers. The break room is basically the other end of the stockroom divided by a few sheets of plasterboard and a dodgy paint job. There’s a ratty old couch along one wall, a sink, single cupboard and counter opposite with a microwave on top and a fridge underneath, and a couple of square IKEA-worthy side tables covered in magazines and old newspapers and books. The rest of the floor space is taken up with boxes of posters and display merch and books, and a few rickety shelves on the wall by the door house even more books. A whiteboard sits up against the far wall, covered in scribbles and doodles and the odd work-related note, and the wall above the couch is made up of felt-covered cork notice boards butted together to fill the whole space. Bits of paper and flyers and photographs are pinned to just about every inch, everything from new book releases and a giant yearly wall planner to an empty soup packet with a cartoon chicken on the front happily proclaiming ‘Cock Soup’.

Frank sniggers and when Gerard catches him looking, he cracks a smile.

“Gabe thought that was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. It’s been there for about three years now and nobody has the heart to take it down.”

Frank just grins. “Gabe sounds awesome.”

“He’s… interesting.” Gerard hedges, but his eyes are smiling, so Frank takes it as a good sign.

Gerard throws his jacket over the back of the couch, so Frank follows suit and piles his many, many layers on the arm until he’s down to his black, still mostly un-creased, button-down.

“C’mon,” Gerard says. “I’ll show you how to work the register.”

\---

By the end of his first week, Frank almost feels like part of the furniture. It hadn’t taken him too long to pick up the cash register. There were different buttons for books and comics - “If you’re not sure what it should be, go for comics,” Gerard had told him, “It makes the numbers look good.” - and other for merchandise like gift cards and wrap and ‘stupid little trinkets’ that head office kept on sending - “We’re a fuckin’ book shop, not a corner store!” Gerard had insisted. Oh yeah, that too - Gerard kinda cursed a lot when he wasn’t around the customers. Frank had begun to wonder if he even realised he was doing it.

It takes him a _lot_ longer to pick up the computer system.

“This is fucking _bullshit_ ,” Frank gripes, slumping forwards over the keyboard with a grunt.

Gerard giggles. His giggle, Frank thinks, is totally adorable, both the sound and the way his whole face scrunches up with it.

“It’s not that bad,” Gerard says, and pats Frank between the shoulders. Frank straightens with a groan.

“Why can’t they just put handy-dandy buttons on the screen? It’s fucking touchscreen when it’s the register! What genius thought a text-based computer system on a _touchscreen_ would be a good idea?”

“Come on, just watch me again.” Gerard says. Frank tries his best to focus, but really, the bright pink and blue and green text on a black background is making his eyes cross.

The little flashing cursor flits between options as Gerard hits the tab key on the keyboard, things like ‘Stock Lookup’ and ‘Reordering’ and ‘Ledger’, and when he reaches the selection he wants, he types ‘1’ in the box to load it up. There’s a list of numbers in a key at the bottom for reference,

Gerard also shares with Frank that he’s been working on introducing some board games to his section. He’s been working at the store for almost four years now, and as other staff had joined up and left he’d been put in charge of almost every section at some point or other over the years - except gardening and home ec, he tells Frank thankfully - but since last year when a guy called Rob had left, he’d finally ascended and been given the entire science fiction, fantasy and comic book section along with art and erotica, since his boss at the time was convinced art and comics were the same, and some comics and manga are basically erotica so Gerard could totally look after all of it, right? Gerard had clearly been over the moon about it because his eyes still sparkled with pride at the memory.

Flitting back to talking about board games again, he shows Frank a well-thumbed supplier catalogue filled with pictures of games with names like _Zombicide_ and _Lords of Waterdeep_ , all dark colors and intricate artwork and nothing like the stuff Frank is familiar with. He’s always been more of a Tic-Tac-Toe kinda guy. About two-thirds of the catalogue has been circled in red and green marker - red for ‘maybe’, green for ‘we need this now’, Gerard tells him - and Frank is drawn to one box marked in green called _Steampark_.

“Dude, that one looks _cool_.” He points it out, and Gerard grins.

“Totally!” He agrees, then goes on to explain. “Basically, you’re in control of building these coal-powered theme park - _steam_ park - attractions and managing the visitors and like, the waste the coal produces and shit like that. The artwork looks super cute but I haven’t seen it unboxed yet. Mikey and I - Mikey’s my brother - we play a ton of games, we’ve had this weekly game night ever since we were teenagers. Most of them are made for more than two players, but we normally just take a couple characters each and roll with it.”

Really, as the only full-time employee now - before Frank - Gerard is technically in charge of most everything, but head office algorithms still manage most of the stocking levels and the store is automatically shipped new stock to replace the old, along with totes filled with the latest bestsellers. Gerard only has to issue the odd top-up order if they have a sudden rush - spoiler, they don’t - and order in anything unusual that he thinks might sell - which he does all the time. Hello, _Flaming Carrot_ , old friend.

There isn’t even really a store manager, at least not anymore, Gerard tells him. There used to be, the one who had dished out all the section ownership and dealt with all the boring shit, but one day he just quit turning up. After a week and a half, Gerard had called head office about it, and they’d offered him a shockingly healthy pay rise to pick up seasonal rotas, cashing up and POS display material.

“So, _you’re_ the manager, then.” Frank tells him, but Gerard just screws up his face in distaste and changes the subject.

The only downside to the pay rise - because he’d already been cashing up and making rotas, anyway - was that they’d made him advertise for another full-time bookseller.

“You really didn’t want to hire anyone, did you?” Frank asks.

Gerard shrugs and has the good grace to look sheepish.

“It was kinda nice working on my own. I like my own company.”

“So what made you change your mind?”

Gerard pauses then shrugs again.

“Your company seemed pretty cool too.”

Frank flushes. It feels like Gerard just gave him a pretty huge fucking compliment.

\---

A few weeks into his new job, Frank is slowly stacking shelves while Gerard is in the back when he remembers the pile of flyers in his bag. He’d been pinning them to trees and telegraph poles and sticking them to lampposts on his way in this morning, but had stuffed them in his bag to help when he’d seen Gerard juggling two coffees and his massive bundle of shop keys and had forgotten all about them.

When Gerard returns, looking rumpled and like he’d maybe fallen asleep for a moment over the books he’d been balancing, Frank plucks up the courage to mention them.

“Hey, so, uh, we have a show this Friday.”

Gerard looks at him, eyes suddenly bright as he runs his hands through his hair. It’s a lost cause, and Frank thinks it’s more of a nervous habit than anything else.

“Your band?” Gerard asks. Frank nods quickly.

“Uh huh. I uh, I kinda brought some flyers to pin up and was hoping, maybe-”

“Cool!” Gerard’s answer to Frank’s significantly-lacking question is immediate, and he reaches towards him. “Gimme, I’ll put some in the windows and on the counter.”

“I- oh, uh, thanks, man.” Now Frank feels stupid for being weird about it. He abandons his tote of stock and grabs them from his bag in the break room, laying them across Gerard’s palms in all of their monochrome, homemade glory.

“It’s just you and one other band playing?” Gerard asks, and again, Frank nods.

“Yeah, my roommate James, he knows people. Like, a _lotta_ people. He’s been doin’ this a while already and his buddy at the venue seemed confident we’d sell enough tickets between us without needing to go in with anyone else and split the paycheck too much, so…” He smiles and shrugs.

Gerard’s expression is suitably impressed, and he sets the pile down at the front of the counter, snagging a couple of flyers from the top. He digs through the junk drawer behind the register and comes back with sticky tack and a roll of tape. He looks at Frank, then down at the flyer again, seeming suddenly awkward.

“I… Would you mind if I came along?”

Frank grins widely, bubbling with enthusiasm. “Yes! I mean, no, I mean, please come, dude! That would be fuckin’ awesome. We’re kinda punk, pretty loud-”

“I remember,” Gerard smiles kindly. “You told me during your interview.”

Frank flushes a little, scratching the back of his head out of habit. He hadn’t really thought Gerard would have cared enough to remember.

“I hope you like us…” Frank says, somewhat nervously. He’s not used to feeling nervous inviting people to their shows - normally his nerves are reserved for that crazy hour before they go on stage, when he realizes he has to get up on stage and turns into a fumbling, jittering mess - but for some reason Gerard’s opinion _matters_ to him. Maybe because he’s so eloquent and loud in voicing his opinions, maybe because he seems to really think things through and can argue a point so beautifully Frank always finds himself agreeing even though he’d usually play devil’s advocate just to be annoying. Frank _really_ wants Gerard to like them.

“I’m not a very good singer,” he adds, “So don’t, like, get your hopes up or anything…”

“Dude, you sing?” Gerard asks, eyes glittering, and Frank nods, chewing on his lip.

“Yeah, well, kinda, and play guitar…”

Frank struggles to identify the look on Gerard’s face and he feels his cheeks flush darker like, like maybe that look in Gerard’s eyes is kind of appreciative? Frank rubs at his head again, well aware he’s probably making a mess of his hair, but it’s this or picking at his fingers, and they’re already calloused to shit anyway. He can’t deny that Gerard is fucking cute, especially when he gets animated, all huge eyes and exuberant expressions and hands that gesticulate wildly, but he’s only known the dude a few weeks and, sure, Frank’s dated guys he’s only known a few _hours_ before but Gerard is his _boss_ , kinda, and he’s already a really good fucking friend. He’s the kind of friend who will go out for coffee when Frank looks tired, or pick up extra pastries on the way to work in the morning, the kind of friend who will answer Frank’s bored texts at all hours of the night when James is working his second job at the bar and Hambone’s asleep (fucking lightweight). And yeah, okay, it’s nothing earth-shattering, but Gerard is sweet and funny and like, a really _good_ person who hardly ever has anything bad to say about anyone, even the irritating-as-fuck customers who come in with fucking _stupid_ questions like, ‘I saw this book over there three months ago, it might have been green, can you tell me what it was called?’

And Frank… none of his relationships have lasted (fucking _obviously_ or he wouldn’t be fucking single right now) and it was usually his own stupid fucking fault they got screwed up; inevitably they would either get tired of Frank’s shit or he’d get drunk or high and find himself kissing someone he _wasn’t_ dating... oops. It’s hard, okay? There are too many pretty, kissable people in the world to be limited to one kissing partner for such a long time and Frank gets _bored_ , he can’t help it.

So yeah, Gerard’s cute, but Frank likes him way too fucking much to screw up their friendship by trying to date the guy.

Art by aethel

The day of the show, Frank is an excited, nervous bundle of jitters. It gets worse as the day goes on, until he’s dropping more books than he’s managing to get on the shelf, talking a mile a minute about anything and everything that springs to mind. Gerard eventually tells him to chill the fuck out and makes him a cup of tea from the stash they keep in the break room for author signings, which Frank drinks as slowly as he can manage. It calms the twitching in his leg, and when he tries to go back out to work, Gerard just pushes him back down onto the couch and leaves a pile of comic book trades on the table with strict orders not to come out until he’s read at least four from cover to cover.

By the time he’s done, Frank does, actually, feel much better. He’s still excited and filled with awkward, nervous tension, but instead of a rolling boil, it’s mellowed to a bubbling simmer and he feels far less likely to spill over.

“Thanks, Gee,” he says genuinely when he resurfaces, finding Gerard perched behind the counter ordering stock for next week on the computer.

Gerard just looks over at him and smiles, shrugging one shoulder, and Frank feels a little tendril of warmth unfurl in his chest.

He notices a flash of the same feeling later that night, when they’re about halfway through their set and he glances out into the crowd during a water break to see Gerard hanging on the very edges of the pit. He catches Frank’s eye and grins widely, the kind of grin Frank has only seen a few times when Gerard is really, really into something and his nose scrunches up and his eyes crinkle at the corners, and it makes Frank’s breath catch in his throat. He feels ridiculously grateful to the universe for allowing him to stumble into that bookstore and have made such a friend, because even though they’ve not really hung out outside of work yet, they talk _all_ the time and it feels like Gerard has slotted into Frank’s life like he should always have been there. He has just enough time to grin back, showing all his teeth, before the drums kick in and he has to fumble his guitar back into place to pick up the next song, flinging himself around the stage and screaming with a little more fervor than he had before.

After they’ve packed up their kit and made way for the next band, Frank, still feeling high on adrenaline and a little tipsy, barrels through the crowd to find Gerard. He isn’t the only friend Frank has at the show, but he’s the only one coming for the first time, and right now he’s the only one Frank wants to see.

“Gee!” He cries, flinging himself at Gerard like a tiny punk octopus. He must be disgusting, all sweaty and sticky and gross, but Gerard barely even flinches, and he catches Frank around the waist like this is something they do every day.

“You guys were _awesome_ ,” Gerard tells him straight away, his voice full of emphasis and _feeling_ and with no hint of deception in his eyes at all. He’s shouting a little to be heard over the PA system, but Frank’s close enough that he doesn’t really need to worry. “I’m totally bringing my brother next time!”

Given how much Frank has heard about Gerard’s little brother and how great he is and how cool he is and how he’s always been the one to introduce Gerard to new bands instead of the other way around, that feels like a pretty huge compliment.

Frank plants a wet, excitable kiss on Gerard’s cheek and spins away to grab a drink, making Gerard promise he won’t go anywhere because he will be _right_ back, okay? Gerard promises, and as Frank weaves through the crowd he glances back and notices Gerard lift a hand to his cheek, fingertips touching the spot Frank’s mouth had been. _Oops_. It _had_ been particularly sloppy. Most people just shoved Frank’s face away without any kind of apology; at least Gerard had waited until he’d gone to wipe the saliva from his face.

Frank gets distracted by a couple guys he hasn’t seen since he left Jersey, who have come all the way out just for them, and he lets them buy him drinks and chats for a while about people back home and other bands that have sprung up and disappeared in the months since Frank left, but he can’t help the glances he keeps shooting over their shoulders to make sure Gerard hasn’t disappeared on him. Mostly Frank sees him people-watching over the rim of his glass, which is a little more empty every time he looks, but occasionally he’ll see Gerard looking back at him. He doesn’t look annoyed, so Frank doesn’t rush his friends along, but when the other band takes to the stage, he uses that as an excuse to cut the conversation short and bounce back over to Gerard.

“Sorry,” Frank apologizes, “I haven’t seen them since I moved, so they-”

“It’s fine, Frankie.” Gerard cuts in, waving him off with a smile. “I’m a big boy.”

Frank grins and waggles his eyebrows at the innuendo, hears Gerard snort elegantly, then drains his glass as the band launch into their first song. They’re not bad; a little predictable, and they’ve relied on a pretty standard, classic five-bar bass line to keep it catchy, but the vocalist has that kind of great, unique sounding voice you have to be born with, and the lead guitarist is fucking _on_. He’s definitely more than tipsy now, but he can feel the music in his bones, which is how he knows it’s good. Frank drags Gerard into the fray for the second song and makes the other man jump and move and dance with him the way he wants to, letting the other bodies around them crash into him and rebounding off them like a pinball. He’s been half-hard all night from the rush of performing and the hands all over him in the pit, but that’s pretty much his natural state at a show like this. More than once he stumbles, and Gerard laughs and catches him every time. So what if Frank probably gets too close sometimes? So what if he ends up pressed along Gerard’s back with a mouthful of his long, smokey hair that could probably do with a wash all on his own? It’s _fun_ , and Frank is a huge fan of grabbing onto fun with both hands whenever he gets the chance, consequences be damned. Gerard, at least, doesn’t seem to mind, and when they make it back to Frank and Dewees and Hambone’s apartment later that night, it’s not at all awkward to collapse onto Frank’s lumpy pull-out couch together and share a blanket. It’s not a date by any stretch of the imagination, but Frank decides he wouldn’t have minded even if it was.

\---

Speaking of dates, it happens on a Wednesday morning like any other. Frank shows up as Gerard is unlocking with two coffees and a smile, vacuums while Gerard pretends to dust, and tells Gerard about the show he’d been to the night before, perching on a stool behind the counter and swinging his legs like a five-year-old. They were shit, he has to admit, but shit in that great way that you could still throw yourself around in a mosh pit to.

The morning is slow; slower than usual for a Wednesday, and by eleven-thirty Gerard is yawning from the caffeine withdrawals.

“I’m gonna go out for Starbucks,” he says. “You want?”

Frank grins back. “Duh.”

Gerard waves over his shoulder as he leaves, the bell tinkling over the door, and Frank sneaks his _Arkham_ trade out from under the counter. He’s almost halfway through now, the spine broken and the corners curling from where he keeps shoving it into his bag when he has to rush to get off the train.

The bell tinkles again, and Frank rolls his eyes, not looking up from his comic.

“Forgot your wallet again?” He asks, then startles when a voice that definitely does _not_ belong to Gerard answers him.

“No, but thank you for asking. I can assure you my wallet is perfectly safe.” The voice is deep, warm as chocolate and very, very Scottish. When Frank looks up he’s momentarily stunned by the face that goes with it. The man has a strong jaw and laughing eyes and, most noticeably, a smooth, bald head.

“Sorry!” Frank says immediately, fumbling to close his book and stand up straight. “Hi, I apologize, I thought you were- never mind. How can I help you today?”

The man smiles wide, and Frank can feels such a strong sense of relief that this attractive stranger isn’t upset with his half-assed welcome.

“I was just in the area,” the man says. “Your little store here isn’t on any of the ‘best bookstores in Brooklyn’ lists, so I assumed it must be fantastic.”

He winks, and Frank feels like a teenage girl at prom.

“Oh, it- it’s not mine, I just. I just work here.”

“Ah, but I rather think it’s the booksellers who make the store. What use are a bunch of books without someone to talk to about them? To give you their thoughts and opinions and emotions, to lead you to the books that create the most diverse universes or show you the most fulfilling characters, to tell you which plots are the most thrilling and terrifying and which ones make you feel like you’re there, inside the action with the characters as if it’s taking place all around you, where you can smell what they’re smelling and feel what they’re feeling...” The man trails off and looks back at Frank with a grin. “Don’t you think?”

Frank blinks stupidly at the guy’s obvious passion. On someone else it would come across as weird and patronizing, but not him. On him it’s and confident and true and _attractive_ , Frank realizes with a start, and he finds himself even more enthused about working here than he had ever been before.

“Yeah,” he says simply, then with more feeling, “Yes. _Yes_. Totally.”

The guy looks like he never stops grinning, his eyes warm and shining with smile lines at the corners and his cheeks bright and happy. Somehow he’s crossed from the door to the counter without Frank noticing, and is suddenly much closer than he’d been expecting. He’s tall, Frank realizes. Really tall.

“I apologize,” the man says genuinely. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

Frank hurries to tell him it’s no problem, really, but the guy’s eyes cut down to the comic he’s closed but hasn’t had the presence of mind to hide away yet.

“Yours?” He asks, and Frank nods, moving to tuck it away.

“Yeah, sorry, it’s quiet today so-”

“No no no,” the guy stops him, holding out a hand. “Don’t put it away on my account. What do you think of it?”

“It’s... brilliant. The asylum practically becomes its own character, like, like it’s going to become sentient like Danny the Street or something, and the Amadeus Arkham story is so cool, with all those parallels to the current timeline… It’s fucking genius. I mean, well, except for the Jesus thing, that’s a bit fucking over the top even for Batman.”

He has to pause to gather his thoughts, and before he knows it’s happening, he hears Gerard’s words coming out of his mouth. He’d been breaking his back lugging totes and stacking shelves while Gerard flipped through a new comic on the counter, and Frank would have been pissed but Gerard had begun waxing lyrical over the writer, Morrison, and his talent and his brain and Frank had jokingly asked if he had a crush on the dude. Gerard had blushed profusely and told him to fuck off. Frank, naturally, had crowed with joy and ribbed him about his ‘boyfriend’ good-naturedly ever since, and eventually Gerard had realized Frank really didn’t give two fucks about Gerard’s sexuality and had shrugged.

“He’s fucking _hot_ , okay?” He’d said. “Tall and gorgeous with this _smile_... and his voice, Frankie, Jesus. You should hear his voice...” He’d gone on for long enough that Frank had been able to read between the lines and work out that first, Morrison had the kind of voice you could get off to reading the fucking phone book, and second, that Gerard had _definitely_ jerked himself off to the guy’s voice, and oh, third, wasn’t _that_ a nice thought?

Apparently he’d also taken Gerard’s opinions on the guy’s writing to heart and stowed them away in the back of his brain for later.

“Like, okay,” Frank hears himself saying, “See, even the way it’s been laid out is confusing and disorienting, how some pages read down instead of across, and it’s like you’re going batshit crazy trying to make head or tail of what’s going on. And the art, man, it’s fucking horrific. You can _feel_ the, the-” What had Gerard called it? “The claustrophobic psychosis that like, permeates the walls and the air of the asylum. So like, I don’t want to show off my huge head but if you can find a horror movie I haven’t seen, I will tip my hat to you sir. This blows them all out of the water… It’s so fucking _creepy_ , it makes my skin itch and crawl like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

The guy doesn’t even flinch at Frank’s cursing, which Frank doesn’t even realize he’s been doing until it’s too late to properly apologize and take it back. _Oops_. He barrels on anyway, his own feelings slipping in amongst the stuff Gerard had told him.

“And Clayface! Oh my fucking God, he’s nasty, all, _’my skin is sick, Batman’,_ it’s fucking _‘rotten and sleeping’_ , what kind of maniac comes up with that shit?” Frank’s grinning, because he fucking _loves it_. “Like, I’ve heard it seems to divide people, love-it-or-hate-it, because people are fucking shallow and they love to hate on stuff that is in any way different to what they’re familiar with, or they think it’s too clever - how can something be _too_ clever, anyway? It feels like the die hard Alan Moore fans want to hate on Morrison just because they think he’s a wanker, not because it makes any sense.”

The guy snorts loudly and Frank pauses.

“Sorry, um, I kinda curse a lot without realizing I’m doing it…”

“Oh, no,” the man says, “It’s just, British slang in your American accent is fuckinh hilarious.”

Frank could so easily take it the wrong way, and were he his younger self, he probably would have. But it’s said kindly, and the guy’s warm brown eyes are twinkling with amusement, so it’s easy to smile back at him and take it in the good humor it was meant.

“Please,” the guy says, gesturing elegantly with one hand. “Continue.”

Frank takes a moment to remember what he was talking about, but only a moment. Gerard had had a lot to say about Arkham Asylum, and he always put it so much more eloquently than Frank could manage by himself.

“So okay, this isn’t, like, the Batman we know, it’s not all about his physical prowess and his gadgets and gizmos. It’s this kind of fucked up psychological journey, like nothing he’s ever had before, which, when the Joker has been one of the main villains for so long seems weird, don’t you think? Ugh, but that text style they chose for Joker’s speech is kind of bullshit. Like I get it, he’s supposed to be crazier than my grandma after three joints and a whole wheel of parmesan, but it’s fuckin’ _impossible_ to read, man. I have to get Gerard to read me most of Joker’s panels because he’s got the worst superpower ever and can, like, read tiny scripts from two hundred paces. But yeah! So like, so Batman’s not himself… Who _cares_ that he’s acting a little different - he’s a human being! If someone stuffed me in somewhere as fucking insane as Arkham, I think I’d be a little messed up over it too. It just shows you that he’s _not_ a fucking superhero, he’s a human just like everybody else. Who hasn’t felt like Batman at some point or another in their life? Alone on the edge of the abyss staring down into nothing… Batman’s allowed to have a bad fucking day, y’know?”

Frank stops and realizes how out of breath he is. The other man doesn’t seem bothered by his verbal diarrhea , in fact he seems to be _enjoying_ it, watching Frank’s face and his crazy hands gesturing with a small smile on his face.

“I’m sorry,” the man says after a moment of silence that stretches between them. It’s not awkward like Frank thinks it probably should be. He straightens slightly and blinks. “I’ve been told once or twice that I tend to do this ‘creepy stare’ when I’m nervous.”

“Nervous?” Frank asks, wondering if he looks as shocked as he feels. What on earth does this guy have to feel nervous about?

“I always feel nervous around intelligent, attractive young men,” the man says, so easily that it takes Frank a moment to compute. When he does, he laughs self-deprecatingly.

“Wait until you meet my friend Gerard,” he says. “Your eyes’ll dry out and fall from your head.”

Frank isn’t sure when Gerard had gone from _co-worker_ to _friend_ , but he kinda likes it.

The guy laughs from his belly and Frank feels himself leaning closer over the counter in response.

“You know, my mother always told me not to let an opportunity pass me by for the sake of misplaced dignity...” the man says. He folds his arms atop the counter and the move brings him down to Frank’s level. “Would you go to dinner with me Friday night?”

Frank is momentarily speechless, but as the guy starts to lean back and away from him, Frank hurries to nod in agreement.

“Yeah,” he says, slightly baffled about why this tall, suave, older man would want to take punky little him on a date, but not stupid enough to look a gift horse in the mouth and ask him. “Yeah, that would be great.”

“Wonderful!” The man replies, his eyes shining with glee. It warms Frank right through to his bones.

He grabs a pen and a pile of torn up scraps of paper they keep lying around by the register and stuffs the top piece, portraying a severed zombie head mid-wail, into the cubby under the counter. The paper is supposed to be for making work-related notes, but mostly it’s Gerard’s doodling pile. Frank scribbles his number down, signing it ‘frnk xo’ and hands it over. The guy folds it carefully and stows it in his back pocket, then snags another piece of paper and writes his own number in a tall, sloping hand that angles heavily to the right before sliding it across the counter to Frank.

“Until Friday,” he says with a wink, and Frank has the sudden urge to wet his lips.

“Yeah. Friday.”

The guy leaves with another tinkling of the bell, and Frank stares down at the number in his hand. He has a date!

When Gerard comes back ten minutes later - who takes that long to get fucking coffee, seriously? - Frank practically jumps on him.

“I have a date!” He cries, and giggles when Gerard startles.

“Fuck, stop-” Gerard turns his body away from Frank’s grabby hands to protect the coffees in his grip. “You what? I leave for ten fucking minutes and you have a _date_?”

“Dude, you were gone for over half an hour.” Frank tells him, grabbing one of the coffees and taking a sip. It’s lukewarm. “You already drank one and bought yourself another, didn’t you?”

Gerard has the good grace to color and look away.

“You know what, I don’t even care, because I have a date Friday night!”

Gerard sets his second coffee down carefully and shrugs out of his jacket. “So you said, lucky fuck. What’s she like?”

Frank snorts inelegantly. “ _He_ is tall and gorgeous and like, _foreign_ and he gave me his number and he’s taking me to dinner Friday night.”

Gerard blinks stupidly for a moment until it computes that oh, Frank likes boys too, and he rolls his eyes.

“Only you could get a date with a hot guy at _work_.” He says. “Where are they when _I’m_ stuck behind the register?”

Frank sticks out his tongue.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have gone for coffee.”

Gerard huffs. “Next time I’m sending you. I can totally do that, I’m your boss.”

“In your dreams,” Frank scoffs.

They have to stop bickering when a real-life, honest-to-God customer arrives, and it’s only when the woman has been rung up and left that Gerard asks distractedly,

“So what’s his name?”

Frank looks at him blankly, and his face drops as he realizes.

He never even asked.

“Fuck.”

\---

He’s lounging at home on the couch-slash-his-bed on Thursday evening when his cellphone trills with an incoming call, and Frank, assuming it’s his mother as always, answers without looking at the caller ID.

“Hey.”

“Well, hello,” comes that low, Scottish drawl. Frank’s skin prickles instantly.

“Oh! Hi.” He replies, heart leaping into his throat. “Um. How are you?”

Small talk, fuck, Frank fucking _hates_ small talk.

“All the better for hearing your voice.” The guy says, and Frank giggles into the phone.

“You’re smooth.”

“So I’ve been told. I’m Grant, by the way. I apologize for not introducing myself properly before.”

Frank feels a flash of irony followed by amusement as he remembers their conversation. “Huh,” he grins, “Like ‘Morrison’.”

Grant laughs slowly. “Exactly.”

“I’m Frank,” says Frank.

“I figured,” says Grant, and Frank feels a little bit stupid. Of course he would have. Frank had signed his paper _frnk_ ; it doesn’t take a fucking genius to add a vowel. Normally feeling inadequate would rub Frank up the wrong way and cause his hackles to rise in defense, but something about this guy, his smooth talking and soothing voice just puts Frank at ease. He didn’t say it because he wants Frank to feel small, they’re just talking. Frank likes it.

“So, Frank,” Grant continues. “I know you agreed before, but I thought I’d give you some time to change your mind about dinner.”

Frank blinks. “Uh… Do you _want_ me to change my mind?” He asks slowly, his stomach sinking slightly at the thought. Why would the guy call him if he’d changed his mind? Wouldn’t it be easier to just not call and not arrange anything?

“Heavens, no.” Grant says firmly. “No, I do not. But, someone like you, attractive, funny-” Frank snorts self-deprecatingly, but Grant continues on over him like he hadn’t heard a thing. “-must have suitors chomping at the bit left, right and center. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t got a better offer.”

Frank shakes his head, then opens his mouth when he remembers Grant can’t see him.

“No, no. No better offers. No other offers at all.” He adds, just to be clear. “Just yours. Which is plenty.”

He can hear that wide, pleased smile in his voice when Grant replies. “Perfect. Text me your address and I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Cool.” Frank grins back. “Where are we going?”

“Ahh, now that would be telling.”

“Yes it would.”

“Indeed. I suppose you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”

Frank grumbles under his breath, but his smile is obvious, and he’s still grinning stupidly when they hang up and he flops back on the couch, feeling warm and excited.

 _geeeeeee,_ he types to Gerard, because James and Hambone would tear him to shreds but Gerard will listen to fucking _anything_ Frank says. _he calld he calld nd his voice is SO HOT MAN._

 _You got a name yet?_ Gerard sends back barely a minute later. See, Frank knew he could rely on him.

 _yes!_ he texts. _get ths - hes calld GRANT_.

Frank’s phone buzzes again. _Like Morrison? Fuck yeah._

 _tht’s wht I said!_ Frank grins even wider. Gerard always gets it.

 _He better be taking you somewhere nice._ Gerard always texts in full sentences too, with proper punctuation. Frank’s far too fucking lazy for that.

_dno he wdnt tell me. wnts it 2ba srprise i spose_

_Fuck, gorgeous, foreign AND romantic? This is so fucking unfair. Where’s mine?!_

Frank sniggers and sends back a particularly obnoxious _\:DDDDDDDDDDDD/_

There’s a longer pause than usual before Gerard’s next message, but just as Frank starts to worry he’s misread and Gerard is pissed, a longer reply comes through.

 _Ugh, fuck you, go have your date._ Frank can _see_ his pouty little face. _I’ll just be at home with a bag of Cheetos and horrible TV while you’re off having loud, messy sex with Mr. Perfect._

Frank laughs out loud.

_fuhk u i dnt put out on a 1st date_

_Not even for a tall, gorgeous, foreign guy?_

Frank takes a long time to reply to that, because the moment he remembers that smile, and those eyes, and that voice, his stomach does a little flip.

_fuhk u_

Gerard’s reply is simple: _;)_

Frank ignores him after that.

When Grant arrives to pick him up on Friday, Frank is… excited. Mostly. A little nervous, because the guy is older and smooth and fucking _gorgeous_ and God, Frank really doesn’t want to fuck this up, but he’s trying to listen to the voice in his head (which sounds suspiciously like Gerard...) which keeps reminding him that he’d been running his mouth about comic books and cursing like a sailor when Grant asked him out, so it wasn’t like he had to fake it to make a good impression. Obviously Grant _liked_ comic book fans who swore a lot.

His cellphone trills with a text and Frank glances down to see a message from Grant.

_I’m outside when you’re ready, Frank._

Frank’s chest clenches - okay, maybe still more than a little nervous… it _is_ a first date… - and he pockets it, checking himself over in the mirror behind the door one last time. Hair under control, check. Barely-there eyeliner, check. Clean-shaven, check. Clean clothes, check, check. He’s basically dressed for work in tidy black jeans, of which he now owns several pairs, a plain black t-shirt and a bottle-green button-down open over the top. With Grant being so secretive Frank figured he could always button up the shirt if it turned out to be a fancy restaurant, or take it off completely if it was somewhere casual. He has a black tie rolled up in his pocket next to his phone too, just in case. Frank shoves his feet into his boots and grabs his leather jacket from the hook - it’s probably too cold, but first dates are more about looking good than dressing for the weather. He leaves his hat and scarf hung up too and settles for keeping his hands in his pockets if he gets cold.

The guys are both out at a gig, which normally Frank would be at with them, so he locks the door behind him and stuffs his keys into his jacket pocket with his wallet, then moves the tie to the inside breast pocket - these jeans are fucking tight, okay? Downstairs, he sees a sleek, black car with tinted windows idling by the side of the road. Fuck, it looks _expensive_ , that can’t be…

As Frank slams the door to the building behind him and trots down the steps, the door opens and Grant climbs out.

“Good evening, Frank,” he says with a smile, and comes around the front of the car to open the passenger door. “How are you?”

With anyone else it would feel like small talk - Gerard _never_ asks how he is, just lets Frank vent about it if he needs to - but Grant sounds like he really cares and actually wants to know. It makes Frank’s mouth quirk up a little and he stops beside the car.

“Fine, thanks. A little nervous, if I’m being honest.”

Grant smiles warmly. “Me too. First dates are rough, aren’t they.”

“Totally.” Frank agrees, sliding into the heated leather seat as gracefully as he could manage. Grant closes the door behind him and walks back around to the driver’s side, getting in and closing his own door.

“Nice car,” Frank offers, sliding his hand over the spotlessly clean dash and wriggling happily in his seat.

“Thank you,” Grant replies with a little half-smile, buckling up and settling his hands on the leather steering wheel. “One of my vices, I’m afraid, along with beautiful boys.”

Frank flushes and looks down to hide his grin.

The drive is longer than Frank had expected it to be, but Grant keeps up a gentle stream of conversation over the music playing quietly in the background, and when they aren’t speaking, the silence is comfortable, not awkward at all. He asks Frank all the usual questions - where he’s from, what his family are like, oh they’re Italian huh, does he have a big family, has he ever been to Italy, would he like to, has he travelled much. He tells Frank all about Japan and China and goes off on a fascinating tangent about Chinese history and mirrors and black magic in Asia. Frank finds himself hanging on every word and he’s almost disappointed when Grant cuts their conversation short to pull the car up against the sidewalk. He leaves the engine running but gets out to open Frank’s door for him, then hands the keys and a fifty over to a valet waiting outside.

He’s brought Frank to a fancy-looking restaurant with an oriental or middle eastern style, Frank can’t really tell from the outside, just that it looks fucking expensive. Must be, given the valet service. Frank immediately feels underdressed so he quickly and surreptitiously buttons up his shirt and wonders if he can sneak his tie on while Grant isn’t looking.

Grant, who takes Frank’s arm at the elbow as soon as he stands and uses it to lead Frank forward through the heavy doors. Inside, the restaurant is much as Frank expected from the outside but _more_. The ceilings are high, held up by great ornate pillars that glitter and sparkle from the lighting overhead. Heavy tapestries line the walls and the hardwood floor underfoot is polished shiny enough to reflect Frank’s fucking _face_. Their jackets are taken from them at the door, and Frank notes with pleasure that Grant looks fucking incredible in a full suit, smoky-gray and pinstriped. There’s a splash of colour at his chest, bright, Joker-purple for the shirt and a red patterned tie the likes of which Frank had only ever seen before on the most obnoxious of Hawaiian shirts. He loves it already, and tells Grant as much.

Grant grins wide, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Frank feels a little flutter at the sight.

As they arrive at their table, Grant puts their host off balance as he rounds the table to hold Frank’s chair for him. Frank’s cheeks warm, but he sits without argument. He doesn’t quite understand his reactions - normally he fucking hates being fawned over - but something about Grant just… makes it all okay. Makes him enjoy the tender attention. Grant is such a gentleman, it’s like he’s been cut from a different kind of cloth to everyone else, and it’s one you can’t find anymore for love nor money.

Grant continues his tale as if he’d never left off, and hell, can the man tell a story. Frank is immediately drawn back into the fold, utterly transfixed, so much so that neither of them notice their server until he coughs politely and hold the menus out in front of them.

“Your menus, sirs.”

“Oh!” Grant exclaims, turning towards him. “I’m so sorry. Thank you.”

Frank takes his with a smile and a nod, laying it on the table before he flips it open. It’s filled with names of dishes he’s never heard of before, but reading the descriptions, all sound delicious. There are plenty of meat-based dishes, but when Frank turns the page, there’s an entire section of vegetarian and vegan options.

Frank is instantly in love, and it all sounds so fucking good. _Lahmacun_ , he learns, is a thin, wholegrain flatbread topped with lightly spiced roasted eggplant, home-grown mushrooms and capsicum, garnished with lemon, basil and parsley. _Ful Medames_ is a sumptuous side made from cooked fava beans seasoned with olive oil and spiced with garlic, cumin and cayenne pepper with tomatoes and onion, and _Mejadra_ is a fragrant dish of spiced beluga lentils and brown rice topped with crunchy fried onions and garnished with fresh coriander. There are so many more that Frank can barely pronounce, _Shish Taouk_ and _Manakish Zaatar_ and _Mushroom Dolma_ \- okay, he can pronounce that one - and plenty of well-known favorites like baba ganoush, kofte and tofu shawarma, for good measure.

Grant goes for the _menemen_ \- onions slow cooked with hot green chillies then stewed with tomatoes and silken tofu with crusty bread made fresh this morning on the side. It, like everything else, sounds delicious, and Frank wonders if he’ll be able to snag a spoonful. Grant looks and over at Frank once he’s ordered, and must see him eyeing up the vegetarian menu because he interjects smoothly.

“Oh, Frank, don’t feel like you have to order vegetarian on my account.”

Frank shakes his head immediately. “No, I, I’m mostly vegan so I would anyway. Animals are, like, intelligent, living creatures, I mean, what right do we have as another intelligent - kind of, anyway,” he adds, and Grant chuckles. “-living creature to use them for our own gain like that?”

Grant’s eyes, Frank swears, sparkle in the light.

“Exactly!” He exclaims, so loudly their server visibly starts and the people at the tables around them turn to look. They quickly turn away again when the see nothing interesting happening, but Grant doesn’t even appear to notice.

“Humans live by this horrific, speciesist belief that, somehow, animals are inferior beings and therefore are theirs to use as they see fit. Humanity as a whole is so lazy, so, so driven by technology and their desire for immediate gratification, we’ve _forsaken_ our responsibility, not just towards animals, but the environment too.”

Frank watched, wide-eyed, and feels a grin spread across his face as Grant continues, his voice steadily rising with passion.

“We’ve become so hideously selfish. What happened to morality, Frank? What happened to respecting other creatures, to protecting those less able than ourselves? And what do we do to them, we breed them in the most despicable conditions, pump them full of chemicals and toxins and who knows what the fuck else, just so we can brutally murder them faster? It’s horrific! We should be ashamed of ourselves.”

Frank’s face aches with how wide he’s smiling right now. It’s a subject he feels so passionately about too, and it makes him impossibly happy that Grant agrees.

“Fuck, man,” he says softly, eyes shining. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

In the end, with some help from Grant, Frank chooses _maghmour_ \- a thick, smoky eggplant and chickpea stew with tomato and mint that hails from, apparently, Lebanon. He orders basmati rice on the side and, on Grant’s urging, the _ful medames_ too. Grant adds a couple more dishes to their order along with some tea Frank’s never heard of either, and a pitcher of ice water, and the server dips his head and leaves them to continue their discussion.

The conversation is easy in a way Frank isn’t used to, especially on first dates. He feels relaxed and comfortable, like he and Grant are old friends who have known each other for years and are maybe beginning to realize there’s a budding attraction between them instead of two people who just met out on a first date together.

“So, you know where I work. What do you do?” Frank asks.

Grant shrugs noncommittally. “Y’know, a little of this, a little of that. Nothing to really write home about, but I get by.”

Part of Frank thinks that sounds like something a pimp or a gangster would say; Grant could easily pass for both. Instead of pressing, he just chuckles to himself at the image of Grant in a bright purple suit and wide-brimmed hat.

The food, when it arrives, tickles Frank’s nose and he feels his eyes drifting closed to fully savor it before the server has even placed the dishes down on their table. Grant meets his eyes when they open again and the smile they share over the steaming platters makes something warm and happy unfurl in Frank’s chest. The feeling stays with him as they eat, sharing each other’s food from the middle of the table while Grant regales Frank with more exciting stories from his time spent in the Middle East. More often than not Frank finds himself frozen, holding a forkful of rice or a hunk of pita piled high with silky spiced deliciousness in front of his face, letting it go slowly cold as he hangs on Grant’s next deep, heavily-accented word. Every time, Grant chuckles and drops his gaze pointedly to the bite of food Frank is holding, and after the first few times Frank realizes it looks exactly like Grant keeps staring at his mouth. He folds his legs beneath the table and tries very hard not to think about it each time Grant looks at him after that.

It’s lucky, really, that the food has been served atop warmers made of intricate metal filigree with candles burning underneath, otherwise it would have all been long cold by the time the pair finish eating. The server clears their plates and casually slips them the dessert menu, and even though Frank feels full to bursting, he can’t help working his way through each item on the list, not least because they all sound so wonderful. _Bastani_ is a Persian rosewater, saffron and pistachio gelato, _Ranginak_ is a chilled flour-based date pudding, and _Halva_ looks and sounds pretty dull compared to the rest, touting flour, sugar and rosewater as the main ingredients, but Grant assures him it is rich and delicious, a million times better than any kind of pudding Frank has ever eaten before. Against his better instincts, Frank orders the _Sholeh Zard_ , a.k.a. saffron pudding, which sounds innocuous enough but is flavored with spices like star anise and turmeric and cardamom, which Frank has never in his life tried in a dessert before. It’s also made with coconut milk and brown rice flour, both of which he can totally eat, but his full stomach isn’t on the same page as his brain and thinks it’s probably a bad idea.

They’re still talking when the dessert course arrives, Grant’s _bastani_ so cold it’s steaming a little in the warmth of the restaurant, and Frank’s _sholeh zard_ looking even more delicious than the picture Grant had painted in his head when he’d been convincing him to try it. As ever, the food is perfect, and somehow Frank’s stomach finds room for the whole dish of pudding too, aside from the few mouthfuls he shares with Grant - not like _that_ , his brain supplies helpfully, although Grant had seemed to decide that they were now past that particular social nicety and had shared the food directly from Frank’s own spoon. It made Frank’s belly flutter pleasantly, and not because he was so full.

After dessert, it takes some wheedling on Grant’s part but in the end, Frank lets the other man talk him into sharing some _Ghahveh Turk_ , which he promises is a type of coffee, and it is delicious and really, Frank can’t leave without at least trying a single sip. When their server brings it over, Frank glances around and sees the restaurant totally empty aside from the two of them. His eyebrows lift in surprise, and the server immediately rushes to tell him there is no rush, please, they should take their time, and there is still plenty of time until they close. Frank doesn’t really believe him, but Grant nods his thanks and lets the server go. When Frank looks down at his coffee, he sees it has been brought along with two tiny cookies on the side. Grant tells him they’re called _Nan-e Nokhodchi_ and _Chebakia_ , made from chickpea flour and rosewater, and nut flour and coconut oil respectively. His horrifically specific dietary requirements had come out over the course of the evening, and Frank appreciates the way Grant casually drops the information into the conversation without coming straight out and telling him they’re safe for him to consume. Both cookies are tiny, one shaped like a flower garnished with crushed pistachio, and the other a little woven pocket of fried goodness sprinkled with sesame seeds. It’s too much food, but Frank is too engrossed in the conversation still to worry about it. It feels like they haven’t stopped talking all night, and although a lot of the stories have come from Grant, he’s somehow managed to work in enough pauses and questions in the right places that Frank has carried his side well enough that they’d gone through several drinks and a whole pitcher of iced lemon water between them.

Finally, Grant gestures for the bill, and Frank takes out his wallet to pay for his half. Glancing uneasily around him again at all the gilded gold and rich carpets, he really isn’t sure he’ll be able to afford even half of the bill Grant has in his hand, but fuck it, he’ll have to make it work somehow. He’s had far too good a time tonight to resent the cost even a little.

For the first time that night, Grant looks horrified.

“Absolutely not.” He says firmly when Frank takes out his card, like Frank is acting crazy. “Frank _Iero_ , I will say this once and once only, so listen well. I am not the kind of man who invites someone on a date and then asks for their money.” The words might be harsh were it not for the glint in Grant’s eye and the ever-present smile curling at one side of his mouth. “Now, put your wallet away before I decide to pay for our next date, too.”

Frank does as he’s told and it’s only when the server has swiped Grant’s card and brought their jackets over that Frank realizes what he’d said. _Our next date_. His stomach flips and he flushes uncharacteristically. He’d hoped there was another date on the horizon for them too.

As they leave, they’re gifted with a small bag of _Sohan Asali_ each, which is apparently honey-saffron-almond candy. When Frank peers inside the bag, the candy looks like beautiful slices of amber, with the slivered almonds encased inside. It’s far too lovely to eat, so he ties the bag up again and tucks it into his jacket pocket to share with his mom later. It’s cold out and Grant wraps an arm around Frank’s shoulders, giving Frank a whiff of his cologne, spiced and sweet, until the valet brings his car around and they can both slip inside. Frank cozies down in the heated seat with a contented sigh, his mind alight and his belly full.

The restaurant had been perfect. It was beautiful and there was barely anything on the menu he couldn’t choose from, which was a novelty in itself - normally Frank found himself grilling the server on what kinds of flour and milk and oil they used in their cooking, instead of only needing someone to point out the few dishes he _couldn’t_ eat. The food itself had been delicious, and the company, well. Frank already couldn’t wait to see Grant again, and they were still together.

Grant turns some music on, something soft and mellow with no lyrics, and they enjoy it in a comfortable silence as he drives, sharing the odd smile along the way. Frank finds his eyes drawn to Grant’s smile more than once, but he thinks he gets himself under control before the other man notices.

Too soon, Grant pulls up outside Frank’s building and kills the engine, getting out and coming around to open Frank’s door for him. He walks Frank all the way up the steps, and Frank peers up at him in the darkness. The streetlight illuminates one side of Grant’s face just enough for Frank to see that already familiar sparkle in his eyes, and he feels the pull deep in his stomach.

“I had a wonderful time tonight, Frank,” Grant tells him, resting one hand palm-down on Frank’s shoulder. “Thank you so much for agreeing to come out with me.”

His gaze is heavy, and Frank feels his cheeks heating again. “Me too,” he replies, nowhere near as eloquent as he’d like to be. “Everything was perfect, the restaurant, the food, y-you… I- thank you.”

Grant definitely notices the compliment, because his smile widens. “I’m glad.” He says simply, then, “Frank, I’d very much like to kiss you right now. Would that be totally out of line?”

Frank’s eyes go wide and he rushes to shake his head because fuck, what kind of idiot says no to that? He tilts his head up just as Grant leans down and their lips meet. Immediately, Frank feels the connection, the way that pull in his stomach grows like it’s trying to reach for Grant and the chemistry bubbles between them. Fuck, he’s so relieved, because if Grant had kissed him and nothing had happened… well, Frank isn’t even going to think about that right now because he’s being kissed to within an inch of his life. Grant had given him a few moments to get used to the feeling before one large hand had cups the back of Frank’s head, and Frank finds himself eagerly leaning in with both palms flat on Grant’s chest, opening up for Grant’s tongue. The kiss alone is turning his legs to jelly, and Frank has just enough time to think _fuck, maybe I **do** put out on a first date_ before Grant is breaking the kiss and stepping back. For a split second, Frank feels himself trying to follow, his eyes still closed, but he quickly blinks them open to find Grant smiling widely at him.

“How soon is too soon to call you?” Grant asks, and Frank takes a moment to get his breath back before he shakes his head.

“No such thing.”

\---

When Frank tells Gerard all about his date on Monday, like he hadn’t spent the whole weekend texting him about it like a teenage girl, Gerard is understandably envious.

“Fuck, this is so not fair,” Gerard whines, squeezing a book onto the shelf in a gap about half as big as it needs to be. He could just shift everything down slightly, but instead he eases out two books halfway, slips the third in the middle, then pushes until they all squash back into place. “Where were all the hot guys _before_ you started here? I’ve never got a date at work, and you’re here for like two days and score someone gorgeous and travelled and romantic and fucking perfect. You gotta help me find a date, Frankie!”

Frank shrugs. “Maybe you just weren’t looking properly. What’s your type, anyway?”

Gerard gives his book a look, like it had just betrayed him unforgivably, and dumps it on the counter. He picks up a different stack and moves on to another shelf, clearly a little distracted. “I dunno, fuck, I’ve always gone for like, hot-and-tattooed with an attitude before, but your Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome sounds like a real drink of water.”

Frank glances down at himself, then looks at Gerard, his lip twitching.

“Wait- is _that_ why you hired me?”

Gerard seems to realize what he’d said about twenty seconds too late, and shoves Frank’s shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. Frank turns back towards him grinning wide and delighted to see Gerard hiding his adorably bright red cheeks and turning away.

“Fuck off, you _wish_ you were my type. I said with hot with an _attitude_ , not a fucking _asshole_.”

Frank cackles with delight and crowds closer to Gerard’s retreating form. “I’m totally your type!” He crows, pressing his crotch against Gerard’s hip and thrusting obnoxiously. Gerard cracks up and elbows him in the ribs, but even the pained wheezing can’t diminish Frank’s smile.

“Hey, don’t worry man, I’ve got plenty of single friends who look just like me. I’ll just tell them I know this cute guy, like an artsy vampire with awesome hair and a gorgeous smile, and they’ll be all over you.”

Frank sees the pink on Gerard’s cheeks creeping up to his ears.

“They’ve gotta be cool,” Gerard tells him, focusing way too hard on his shelving. He’s even moving books around to make space for face-outs on the shelf, which he usually never cares about. Face-outs are for the gaps you don’t have enough stock to fill, or something you really, really love. “Like, into good movies and comic books and shit. Bonus points if they know the difference between Sauron and Saruman.”

Frank raised an eyebrow. “Dude, do you ever wonder if you’re single because you’re so fuckin’ picky?”

Gerard’s shoulders twitched like he wanted to look Frank in the eye, but he didn’t turn around.

“I know what I like.” He told Frank eventually. “What’s the point wasting time with someone if we’ve got nothing in common?”

Frank pursed his lips and shrugged one shoulder. Gerard did have a point. Frank wasn’t picky, but he’d been on what he felt was more than his fair share of shitty dates. “Fair. Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

Gerard does turn to look at him then. “Really?” He asks, his face open and disbelieving.

“Sure!” Frank promises. “It’s the least I can do for talking about my date all the time. Which actually reminds me, I’m seeing him again this weekend-”

Gerard groans and looks to the heavens. Frank ignores him and picks up the label gun to start pricing up the delivery of notebooks they’d had earlier. He carries on talking with the familiar _ka-chuck-pip_ of the label gun adding a gentle percussion, and Gerard goes back to his shelving.

Art by aethel

Frank and Grant have been dating for six weeks - which also makes this their sixth date (Frank isn’t counting the impromptu coffee shop visits and trips for ice cream or late night hot chocolate runs Grant takes him on as dates, otherwise the number would be a lot higher) - when Gerard and Grant finally meet, totally by accident.

Frank’s getting ready, damp from the shower wearing a pair of skinny black jeans when there’s a knock at the door. Normally he’d shout for Dewees or Hambone to answer it, but they’re both out, Hambone working and Dewees at a show Frank would normally have tagged along to. Assuming it’s Grant, Frank opens the door without checking the peephole.

“Hey-” he starts, then stops short when it’s _Gerard_ standing outside. His friend’s eyes automatically drop down to his torso, lingering for a drawn-out moment over all of the tattoos scattered across Frank’s skin, until Frank steps back to silently invite Gerard inside.

“Hey,” he says again. “Um. What’s up?” Gerard coming back to his place after work to get dinner and watch movies was becoming a semi-regular thing, especially on nights when the other guys were out, but normally Frank was aware of it happening before he showed up. Most of the time they even caught the train back together after work, picking up dinner on the way. Gerard had never shown up unannounced before.

Gerard blinks at him, as if he was expecting Frank to be fully clothed instead of half-naked - which was probably a fair assumption - and eventually steps inside and lets Frank close the door behind him.

“Uh, I just, I texted you, sorry...” Gerard is fumbling and awkward in a way Frank isn’t used to him being, so he takes hold of Gerard’s shoulders and plants him on the couch, then grabs him a soda from the fridge.

“I know you’ve got a date tonight,” Gerard carries on, taking the soda and holding it between his hands without opening it. “But I got caught up at work, you know, with that signing?” Frank nods; he’d helped Gerard set up before he left, but had begged off actually manning it so he could go on his date with Grant. “Yeah, so it ran late, then I stayed to clear up and uh, turns out, I missed the last fuckin’ train.”

 _Ah_.. Frank smiles. “You need a place to crash?”

Gerard looks so relieved it hurts. “Please, I’m so fuckin’ sorry, Frankie, I didn’t mean to like, on your date night especially-”

“Dude, it’s totally fine,” Frank interrupts, before Gerard can get too carried away. “You know you’re always welcome here. It’s not the biggest place and the guys’ll be home later but they like you. Don’t even worry about it.”

Now Gerard looks like he wants to hug him. Frank would have, but h’s cutting it fine as it is, and now he’s running late. He leaves Gerard drinking his soda while he puts a shirt on, then as he’s trying to talk his hair into doing _something_ in the mirror, there’s another knock at the door. This time it has to be Grant.

Frank still has no idea what Grant does. He remembers Gerard asking him a few days earlier - “You’ve been dating _six weeks_ but you still don’t know what he does?” he’d said, clearly judging Frank’s conversational skills. Frank had just stuck his tongue out and told him, “We talk about _interesting_ shit, not _work_ ” to which Gerard had glared in response and gone back to his shelving - but the next time he’d thought to ask Grant about it, he’d gotten distracted by a story of two of Grant’s Glaswegian friends trying to out-drink each other in a bar ( _pub_ , in Grant’s words) back home, an impressive mustache, and a shopping cart ( _trolley_ ). By the end of the story, Frank had been laughing too hard to remember what it was he’d wanted to ask Grant in the first place.

He _should_ probably ask, though. When they go out together, Grant always seems to have a wallet full of cash and cards, and maybe that’s just standard for an adult with a half-decent paying job, but to travel as much as Grant has, he’d need a fair bit of disposable income, and it’s starting to make Frank worry that he’s some kind of secret pimp or drug dealer by night or something. He’ll ask tonight, he decides, then he’ll know, and he can put the matter to bed. Much like where he’d like to be tonight too, preferably with a tall, suave Scotsman by his side. It’s been six _weeks_ and they still haven’t got past the goodnight kisses phase.

“Hey, Gee, get the door for me?” Frank asks, leaning back through the open bathroom door so he can see Gerard on the couch from where he is in front of the mirror. “Tell him I’ll be right out.”

Gerard looks around like maybe there might be another ‘Gee’ he’d somehow missed, then stands up. Weirdo. “Uh, okay.” He disappears and Frank hears the door open, followed by Gerard’s voice, all high pitched and a little bit terrified.

“Oh my God.”

“Well,” Frank hears Grant purr, the familiar Scottish brogue rumbling in his ears. He can even hear the wide grin spreading across Grant’s face. “That’s the type of greeting I could get used to.”

“Um.” Gerard squeaks. “I’ll- just-”

Frank hears feet shuffling, and is about to lean back out into the hall when Gerard comes barreling through the door and slams it closed behind him.

“What the fuck, dude?” Frank asks, backing up against the sink. This bathroom is really not big enough for two.

Gerard just whines pathetically then seems to remember he has a fucking spine in there somewhere, and shoves Frank particularly hard. “Why didn’t you fucking _say_ anything!?” He hisses, looking a little mad now. Frank is still none the fucking wiser.

“... About…?”

“About how you’re dating Grant fucking _Morrison_!?” Gerard shoves him again and Frank brings his own arms up in self defense.

“Hey, hey- stop! What!?” _Morrison? What?!_

“Didn’t you want me to know?” Gerard said, keeping his hands to himself now and looking surprisingly bereft. “I mean, I know I like the guy and all, but I thought we were…”

 _I thought we were friends,_ Frank hears, even though Gerard doesn’t say the words out loud. It makes his heart twist painfully in his chest, to see him looking so _hurt_.

Frank is so fucking confused right now he can barely see straight. He’s been dating Grant Morrison this whole time? It would explain a lot of shit... He swallows hard and looks straight at Gerard.

“That’s Grant Morrison out there?” Frank asks quietly, aware of how their voices echo off the tile in here. “As in, Batman, Doom Patrol, Gerard Way’s Highschool Crush Grant Morrison?”

Gerard nods slowly, his face relaxing as he realizes Frank is just as confused as he is. “You didn’t know?” He asks, and Frank shrugs.

“His job never really came up, remember?”

Gerard snorts elegantly, so naturally, Frank shoves him. Gerard stumbles into the sink and pouts, rubbing his hip, then catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

“I can’t go back out there!” He hisses at Frank. “Look at me! I look like a hobo!”

Frank eyes him as best he can from five inches away. “Dude, you always look like a hobo.” _It’s adorable_ , he very carefully doesn’t say out loud. Gerard shakes his head frantically and shuffles further back until Frank thinks he might just climb into the shower if he thought it would help. Sighing, Frank leaves him in his apartment to quietly freak out, and goes out to dinner with Grant, prepared to have a _conversation_.

“Why didn’t you tell me who you were before?” Frank asks curiously, while they’re waiting for their food to arrive. Thanks to Gerard’s little hissyfit it had been obvious that the cat was out of the bag, but Grant hadn’t attempted to broach the subject on his own, and Frank had wanted to think things over during the drive. It surprises him a little that he’s not feeling confrontational or accusatory. He’s trying to piece together their conversations from memory, and he doesn’t think Grant’s ever lied to him, he’d just been careful with his words, and Frank - not one to pry - hadn’t tried to delve deeper.

Grant reaches across the table and touches the back of Frank’s hand. Frank turns his hand over and lets Grant hook their fingers together.

“I liked you,” Grant replies eventually. “I liked how you looked at me, and I didn’t want to risk that changing once you realized I was someone you already knew and might have had... _opinions_ about...” He emphasizes the word ‘opinions’, implying that they might be bad.

Frank can see the honesty in his eyes, and it makes him flush. “I’m not that kind of guy,” he says quietly.

“I know that now, and I’m sorry.” Grant smiles. “At first, in the shop, I thought you were taking the mickey, saying those things about my work like you wanted me to kick off. But, ah, I don’t know. Something about you was different. You weren’t an arsehole about it.”

He grins sheepishly, and Frank returns it with a giggle. “Yeah, I had no fuckin’ clue who you were. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, Frank, you were fantastic,” Grant insists, squeezing Frank’s hand. “Very insightful. You picked up on things I’ve never told anyone before, not even Warren.”

“Well, I don’t normally read comic books,” he admits, rubbing a hand over the back of his head sheepishly. “I tend to prefer real books-”

“‘Real’ books?” Grant raises an eyebrow for as long as it takes Frank to stumble, then he chuckles, and Frank feels his inner teen girl sighing dreamily.

While they’re telling the truth, Frank admits to using Gerard’s words instead of his own. After how complimentary Grant has been, he doesn’t want to go any further with either of them believing something about the other that just isn’t true. He’s nervous about the admission, but Grant doesn’t seem to mind, squeezing Frank’s hand gently.

“I know at least half of what you said was your own,” Grant said. “I also know you’re more than smart enough to come up with those comments by yourself too. Just listening to you talk about animal rights that first day sent me head over heels. I don’t mind that you borrowed the remarks about my work from your friend, not so long as you believe them.”

Frank nods and returns the squeeze, wishing he could lean across the table for a hug. He knows now that Grant gives the _best_ hugs.

“This Gerard certainly sounds like an interesting fellow,” Grant says, clearly intrigued. “I’m assuming this is the same Gerard who greeted me so... uniquely?” Frank nods.

“He’s a pretty big fan,” he tells Grant, who laughs.

“Then he must be just as crazy as I am.” Grant says. “Maybe we should meet properly, see if the world would implode around us or whether we’d ascend to a higher plane.”

“I think he might-” _blow his load_ , Frank had wanted to say. He was learning that Grant could be just as crude as him and then some - he was Scottish, after all - but something about the closeness of their conversation made him want to be a little less crass than normal. “-lose his mind,” he settles on in the end, and Grant chuckles knowingly.

“That’s not what you wanted to say, was it?”

Frank laughs and returns the grin. They’re still holding hands, and when Grant eventually releases his fingers to pick up his utensils, Frank’s hand feels cold.

\---

A few weeks later, Frank’s organizing the Classic Fiction and Erotica sections. Someone with a really sick sense of humor had designed the store layout with them side-by-side, so that anyone looking for the Bronte Sisters or Dostoyevsky would get an eyeful if their gaze strayed too fair. Maybe that was the point… Either way, they tend to get left in the most disarray, being tucked away at the back of the store, so Frank has taken it upon himself to sort them back into some semblance of order. It just so happens that Gerard’s gaming area, where all of the roleplay guides and gaming manuals have given birth to a couple tables piled high with different board and card game boxes, is also at the back, so while Frank is tidying, Gerard is also ‘tidying’, or more accurately, reading one of the Dungeons and Dragons Player Handbooks when he _should_ be tidying, because, if Frank’s being honest, the section looks particularly horrific right now.

Frank’s listening to Gerard ramble about two different D&D campaigns he wants to run, one based in Luthadel, which he explains in great length is a city from the _Mistborn_ series, where the land is ruled by one leader, the Lord Ruler, and certain characters, called _Mistings_ , can do magic, or ‘alamancy’, as he calls it, based on ingesting tiny flakes of certain metals. The _Mistborn_ , usually part of the noble houses, can use _all_ the various alamantic metals to do different types of alamancy, and Gerard has all kinds of fascinating ideas for campaigns he can run in that universe. The other is more traditional, using the recognizable characters like orcs and elves and wizards, but it was the Luthadel scenario that tickles Frank’s interest the most. From there, he moves on to board games, and Frank admits that he hasn’t touched a board game since he was a kid and had been forced to play Monopoly for six hours straight with his cousins and aunts and a particularly competitive uncle. Gerard stares at him, aghast, and gestures to the piles of boxes between them.

“But Frank!” He exclaims. “There are so many amazing games! Look at all of these! Pick any one and I _promise_ you, it’ll be at least a hundred times better than Monopoly.”

Frank gives him a dubious look, but peers over the selection all the same. Some of the titles are pretty cool, he has to admit. _Betrayal at House on the Hill_ , that sounds nice and creepy if it’s anything like the movies of similar names. Ooh, _Dead of Winter_ , that one actually looks awesome. He picks up the grey, bloody box, surprised at the weight of it, and Gerard grins.

“Nice choice. There are a ton of characters you can play. Basically, you’re in the middle of the zombie apocalypse-” Frank grins and Gerard nods knowingly. “I know, right. And you and your team are trying to survive. In each round you can choose to leave the base to gather food and supplies, pick up survivors - who will also need food - and try not to get bitten, or stay put if you’re not strong enough to move. Each character has different strengths and abilities and weapons, and you all have different secret endings that you want to try and fulfil, so you might find someone turns traitor and screws you over too. It’s awesome.”

“That sounds pretty cool,” Frank admits, and Gerard’s grin brightens.

“You should totally join me and Mikey for game night!”

Mikey, Frank remembers, is Gerard’s younger brother. He hasn’t ever met the guy, but he’s heard plenty of stories over the months he’s worked at the store, and Mikey sounds like his kinda guy. Gerard apparently isn’t done talking, though.

“He’s coming over tonight, seriously, if you’re free you should totally come, he’ll love having someone else there and I think you’d really like him. He’s so cool, way cooler than me-” Frank snaps his mouth shut just in time, keeping the teasing _everyone’s cooler than you_ that he doesn't really mean to himself while Gerard keeps talking. “-and we were gonna play _Arkham Horror_ but he’s been whining all week because _apparently_ it’s ‘too hard’ to keep track of two characters and two sets of weapons and the different skills and sanity and health levels through all the different phases and encounters...”

Frank’s brain is already spinning at the thought, but instead of listening to his better instincts he feels himself nodding stupidly and saying, “Sure.”

Which is the surprisingly long story of how he’d come to be here, in Gerard’s apartment. It’s easily the coolest apartment Frank’s ever seen - from the outside it looks like a pretty standard, brick built semi-detached house with a bay window and three stone steps up to a brown front door. But inside, it had been split down into _way_ more apartments than it should be feasibly possible to squeeze into a three-bedroom house. Gerard has one of the upstairs apartments at the back of the building, and the chipped front door opens into the kitchen-slash-living area, one-third tiled and two-thirds carpeted. Old white and brown chipboard cabinets line the wall to Frank’s left along with a two-ring burner and tiny sink and a little two-person patio set straddles the join between the white tiles and coffee-colored carpet. Gerard’s fridge is pushed up against one side of the couch, with a surprisingly large TV against the opposite wall surrounded by as many of IKEA’s cube shelves as he could squeeze into the small space. Each cube is packed with comics, DVDs, CDs and board games, and Frank can already feel his fingers itching to look through his friend’s collection because he already knows from their conversations that between them Gerard and Mikey own just about every terrible horror movie ever made - Frank’s favorite kind. There’s also a double closet; Frank knows because the doors are open when he arrives, displaying the terrifying disarray of Gerard’s stuff within. Gerard closes it hurriedly and Frank is looking around for another door to a bathroom or a bedroom when he spots it. The kitchen cabinets didn’t quite line the entire wall like he’d first thought, but the front door had been open at the time, hiding it from sight, and that’s what solidifies it in Frank’s mind that this is the coolest apartment ever. Gerard doesn’t have a bedroom with a door - he has a freaking _ladder_ to a little cubby in the ceiling, over the bathroom. It’s hard to see from the kitchen, so Frank backs up around the coffee table strewn with sketch pads and pens and paints until he can see at the right angle. The cubby can only be six feet square and maybe four feet high. Gerard has a mattress shoved up against one side and another IKEA unit along the wall parallel to it, probably filled with more comics and CDs. It’s hands down the most awesome bedroom Frank has ever seen, and he immediately wants to climb the ladder and look down over the rest of the apartment.

He doesn’t, but only because Gerard distracts him with coffee and the gluten-free cookies that he’d picked up especially for Frank on the way home. He keeps the idea on the back burner though, because seriously, a _loft bedroom_? Fuckin’ A, man.

Frank is sitting on the floor in front of Gerard’s TV surrounded by a pile of DVDs when Mikey arrives, and he immediately leaps to his feet.

“Mikeyway!” He exclaims, eyes wide. Mikey _way_ , of _course_. He been _Mikeyway_ to Frank back in Jersey for so long that he hadn’t even considered that he might have two separate names.

“Frank from Pencey?” Mikey replies, looking as surprised as Frank had ever seen him look, both eyebrows very slightly raised. “What are you doing outside Jersey, man?”

Frank laughs and flips him off, and they hug like old friends instead of guys who met occasionally at shows but didn’t really have many friends in common. Gerard sends them both a baffled look, and Mikey releases Frank to shove Gerard in the shoulder. That seems to happen to Gerard a lot.

“You didn’t tell me it was Frank from _Pencey_!”

Gerard looks back and forth between them again and folds his arms defensively. “How was I supposed to know?! Why didn’t _you_ ever introduce us before anyway? We could have been friends this whole time!”

Mikey snorts. “Because you were a greasy fucking hermit who never left your basement like a fucking vampire, that’s why.”

Gerard screws up his face and sticks out his tongue, like the mature adult he is. Frank sniggers and Gerard shoots him a betrayed look, like Frank should be on _his_ side in this.

“Sorry dude,” he says, and takes pity on Gerard, deciding to fill Mikey in on everything he’s apparently missed. “Sabatino and Hagevik put the brakes on Pencey. I think we were getting too much attention for them. They wanted a bit of fun, y’know, and me and Shaun and Hambone, we… wanted more, I guess.”

It’s hard not to be bitter about it. Frank’s trying, he really is, but Pencey Prep were _going places_ , they’d just recorded an album, they had real fans, plans of touring around the country, they’d been working towards it for years in the crummiest rehearsal spaces and playing the worst venues, then all of a sudden one day, it was all over. Frank had spent a lot of time being angry and upset and frustrated at life, and had fuck all to show for it, so he’d moved on as best he could.

“You remember Dewees?” He asks, and Mikey nods. “Him and me and Hambone have a new band, more hardcore than Pencey but still punk-”

“Obviously,” Mikey cuts in.

“Obviously.” Frank grins back at him. “You should come to our next show! Hambone’s trying to get some stuff booked back in Jersey - the Brooklyn punk scene is fuckin’ awful, man - I’ll get Gee to hit you up with the dates.”

“You’d like them a lot, Mikes,” Gerard pipes up, and Mikey shoots him a look.

“You went to a show without me? On your _own_?”

Gerard flushes and Frank giggles. He’s learning so much about his friend tonight.

“Frank invited me…” Gerard says, his voice small and a little awkward in a way Frank hasn’t heard before. It’s kind of adorable. Mikey just raises his eyebrows, then changes the subject.

Eventually they get to the purpose of the evening, the game.

 _Arkham Horror_ , Frank learns, is a game set in 1926 in the Cthulhu Mythos of H.P. Lovecraft, who Frank fucking adores, so they’re off to a good start already. They’re also playing with the _Innsmouth Horror_ expansion, which means fuck all to Frank but apparently _does_ mean they need to push all the furniture up against the walls to make room for the various boards and cards and pamphlets and fucking _piles_ of tokens and shit. Frank’s head is already starting to spin before Gerard even begins explaining the game. Apparently, they each take on the role of an investigator, each one living in, or visiting, the town of Arkham, Massachusetts. Frank chooses a gravedigger, naturally, called William Yorick, an actor-turned-gravedigger who realizes something is wrong when strange corpses begin turning up in the cemetery. Mikey gets Leo Anderson, the expedition leader. He led an ill-fated expedition into the Yucatan and now his men are either insane or dead, and Leo has returned home guided by the hastily-scribbled notes of a madman. Gerard picks a lounge singer named Marie Lambeau, stage name _The Smoky Velvet_ , who has been drawn to Arkham by the death of her grandmother and tales of a man who can make the dead dance by playing a trumpet. Gerard tells Frank he has a starting score of six stamina, which is pretty good, and four sanity, which is decent, and that his lore, influence and will are all perfectly average. Whatever the fuck that means. Gerard’s character, when Frank glances at his character sheet, looks to be about the same, and Mikey has five for both his stamina and sanity, so, apparently, he’s got a slightly higher chance of not going insane. Fun times.

Gerard goes on to explain the concept of the game to Frank, flicking through the rulebook as he talks. As they move around the boards to investigate different locations, gates to other planes will open throughout the town and monsters will enter through them to roam the town. Their team of hack investigators must travel through the town, avoiding or fighting the monsters, acquiring tools and spells whilst trying to hang on to as much sanity as possible - obviously - and ultimately, entering the other worlds in an attempt to close the gates and prevent more monsters entering through them.

If too many gates open, the ‘Doom Track’ advances and a powerful, horrifying creature called an Ancient One breaks through into the city to take over and threaten the world. Once this happens, Gerard tells them, the game is basically over, but there is a _small_ chance that, with enough sanity and items and spells, they might be able to defeat it. While Frank’s head spins, Gerard lets Mikey deal out more piles of cards to each of them which apparently give Frank’s character more items and spells and stuff to use throughout the game when he’s in a tight spot.

As the game gets underway, Frank realizes he’s probably going to be in a tight spot most of the time. He doesn’t really understand the different phases and encounters they have to go through, in order, every single round, and he doesn’t really understand the mechanics - it was so much easier when it was Monopoly and there was only one direction to move in and one set of dice, and the only thing differentiating the characters was the little silver tokens that got picked at the beginning of the game. Gerard seems to be having fun though, his eyes alight, and that warms Frank enough for him to keep going.

After the first hour, Frank’s down to two sanity and one health. It’s not looking good, because if he moves, he’s going to have to fight three monsters, and if he stays put in the library it’s highly likely a gate is going to open up beneath his feet and he’ll be sucked into another dimension, at which point he’ll have to fight more monsters. Frank used his spells up in the first few rounds and quickly realized they were fucking bullshit, because he had to lose a sanity _and_ roll a lore check before exhausting the spell, so when his fucking lore check failed he’d lost sanity for no fucking reason! By round three he’s decided the makers of this game are sick fucking headcases who enjoy seeing others in pain, because there is literally no other reason for the game to be this fucking hard. Mikey still has three health but only one sanity, and Gerard is holding is ground with three of each but he got lucky and managed to score a ton of items in round one.

They’ve paused for snacks while Gerard flips through the rulebook - he seems to permanently have his nose buried in it to check how certain items can be used, how the different checks measure up against different types of monster, whether Mikey’s character can move past any monsters _without_ a combat check because he has _Bind Monster_ spell to use, and just about every other action any of them try to take. Frank’s letting his mind wander, and as he’s about to ask whether Mikey thinks the Kool-Aid Man would win in a fight against Trix Rabbit when his cellphone trills in his pocket.

It’s from Grant, and Frank can’t stop the smile that takes over his face.

_Are you enjoying your evening, love?_

Frank’s heart stutters, just like it does every time Grant uses that nickname. They hadn’t actually said the words yet, but Frank has felt himself falling hard and fast since that first date. It’s only been a matter of weeks, barely over two months, and it feels too soon to feel as much as he feels for Grant when he hasn’t even seen where the guy lives, but… well, Frank isn’t exactly in control of his heart, and Grant, he looks at Frank like it might be mutual. They hadn’t talked about the nickname since the first time Grant casually dropped it into conversation and Frank had choked on his next breath and blushed. Grant had squeezed his hand and Frank had linked their fingers together, and Grant had carried on using it.

 _i thnk so,_ he texts back. _m at gerards playing sm crazy board game w/his brother._

Frank glances up to check Gerard is still reading and Mikey is still tipping chips into bowls on the counter, then his phone buzzes in his palm.

_Ah, the elusive Gerard. Is he still terrified of me?_

Frank snickered and tapped out a reply.

_hes nt scared of u, hes jst scared of MEETING u. ur like his IDOL i swear._

Mikey sets the bowls of chips down next to Frank, maybe feeling passive-aggressive about how fucking long Gerard has had them playing this fucking _game_ , and Frank shoots off another quick text to let Grant know he’s putting his phone away again before they get back to the game.

Frank knows if he could just get them together, they’d get on like a house on fire. But, as much as Gerard is pretending to be over the whole unexpected ‘my friend is dating my idol’ drama, Frank knows that if he told Gerard that Grant wanted to meet him - which he genuinely does, because Frank talks about him all the time - then Gerard would freak the fuck out again - which he would, because Grant had dropped into the store a couple days ago to take Frank for lunch, and Gerard had stumbled over his greeting, mumbled a barely audible, “uh, I’ll just, giveyoutwosomespace,” then disappeared into the breakroom until they left.

He’s going to have to be sneaky about it, Frank realizes, because no amount of warning is going to make Gerard feel any more comfortable about the idea. He’s going to have to spring it on him without giving him a chance to object or work himself into a panicked frenzy. He just needs the right time and place to make it work...

After four and a half hours of Gerard checking the rulebook every five minutes, Frank’s brain decides it can’t take it. He’s finding it hard to label this as a ‘game’ anymore, and in a moment of what he can only attribute later to blind madness, Frank lets Gerard talk him into joining their D&D campaign instead. On the bright side, all that time to sit and chat with Mikey and watch Gerard scratch his head and flip pages gave Frank _plenty_ of time to think. He’s pretty sure he’s come up with a way to have Gerard meet Grant without _completely_ freaking out, at least, and in exchange for joining the campaign, Frank has Gerard and Mikey agree to come with him on the awesome-sounding Halloween Haunted Walk in Prospect Park next week. Mikey is totally up for it, but Gerard tries to wheedle out of it until Frank slams his hands down on the game board and, ignoring Gerard’s flinch, says in his outside voice, “It’s my birthday, motherfucker, don’t be a bad friend!”

Gerard flushes adorably and winces again, presumably at the thought of his neighbours banging on the ceiling with broom handles - or whatever they use now that it isn’t the nineteen twenties, how the fuck is Frank supposed to know? He doesn’t care how fucking loud the neighbours play their music, he can blast his louder. Even though it’s not _technically_ Frank’s birthday when they decide to go, because they all agree it would be absolutely packed if they chose Halloween as the night to do it, Gerard agrees in the end and, to his credit, doesn’t even ask if Grant will be there. Frank is secretly proud of him.

\---

Grant, Frank has learned, is a born flirt. It’s like he can’t help himself. It doesn’t matter who he’s with or what they’re talking about, Grant will lean into their personal space and smile that wide, bright smile of his and touch them on the arm as he talks. He listens to everything they’ve got to say, really listens, and maybe Frank would be jealous about it, but he’d seen Grant _really_ flirt the first time they met, and that isn’t it.

Sure enough, when he points out Gerard and Mikey waiting for them underneath the impressive Soldiers’ and Sailors’ memorial arch, Grant turns on the charm. He approaches them easily, and Frank sees the moment Gerard notices them because he’s watching for it. Gerard’s eyes go wide and he mutters something to Mikey, then looks around as if he’s considering bolting. Then he meets Frank’s eyes across the space between them and he wilts visibly, staying put.

 _Gotcha_.

Mikey, for his part, looks unperturbed as Grant shakes his hand and introduces himself. Grant looks especially slick tonight, Frank thinks, in a black, well-cut suit that emphasizes his shoulders and his behind, with a deep red shirt underneath. When Frank asks what he’d come dressed as - it’s Halloween, after all - Grant had smiled slowly and flashed a set of beautifully realistic fangs. Frank had grinned, shuddering a little at the thought of what those teeth could do to him, if Grant would finally man up about it and stop being such a gentleman.

Frank himself had come as a zombie, with some ‘help’ from Dewees smearing mud into an old shirt he’d ripped up. He had an undershirt and a long-sleeved black shirt on underneath it, because winter was fucking _cold_ in Brooklyn, and had backcombed his hair and done his face up with dollar-store fake wounds and Halloween makeup to make himself look like he’d just crawled out of a grave. Dewees had taken great delight in rubbing dirt into his hair, too.

Gerard is wearing a huge, heavy-looking hooded cloak - his Dungeon Master cloak, Mikey tells Frank later - and is all in black from head to toe aside from a little white clerical collar at his throat. His face is pale, even paler than usual, and his eyes have gray makeup all around them, making them look deeply sunken. He’s used the same effect on his cheekbones to make himself look gaunt, and the only colour Frank can see is a smear of red at the corner of his mouth. Grant shakes Gerard’s hand eagerly, and when Gerard opens his mouth to try and say something, he flashes a set of cheap plastic fangs.

Frank looks over Mikey and raises an eyebrow at his lack of costume. He looks just the same as he does every day, and Mikey must notice Frank looking, because he angles his body towards him and points at a handwritten name tag stuck to his jacket. It says ‘GOD’, and just like that Frank understands.

“Buffy,” he says simply. “Classic.”

Mikey nods and they share a grin. Grant is well on his way doing his thing, standing close to Gerard under the guise of being heard amidst the rush of people around them wanting to join the walk, and has a hand on Gerard’s arm through his cloak, chatting to him like they’re old friends. Gerard doesn’t look anywhere near as comfortable as Grant, but he’s staring up at him with wide, starry eyes and listening intently, so Frank thinks it’s okay to assume they’ve safely cleared Level 1 - Stop Gerard Running Away.

Level 2 is something about Gerard engaging, but Frank’s pretty sure Grant has that part totally under control. Gerard seems to be coming around by the time they decide to join the walk, and has his teeth in the palm of his hand so he can answer the questions Grant is asking him. Frank can’t really hear their conversation, but he’s happy enough to catch up more with Mikey and learn about the bands he should be going to see while he’s living in Brooklyn, and he promises Mikey he’ll come to a show in Jersey next time he’s out visiting with his mom. Gerard even seems to have forgotten that this is a _haunted_ walk, because when the first actor leaps out at them, blood pouring from a massive wound in his head, Gerard jumps about eight feet into the air and screams like a little girl.

Frank, helpfully, cracks up.

Gerard’s embarrassed blush is visible even in the dark, and Grant chuckles, laying a hand on Gerard’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” he tells Gerard, flashing his fangs. “We’ll protect you. I’m the most fucked up mother in this place.” Frank sees Gerard shoot him a worried look, so he just shrugs.

“It’s haunted, the hint’s in the name. Don’t tell me you’re surprised now.”

Gerard pouts, and it’s one of the cutest things Frank has ever seen. He ruffles the other man’s hair and flanks his right side as Grant takes his left, Mikey easily bringing up the rear as they continue on. The next time Gerard jumps out of his skin, Frank’s arm looped through his and Grant’s hand on his shoulder keep him in place, so he can totally pretend he wasn’t as scared that time.

Grant easily keeps up a steady conversation as they walk, looking completely unruffled while Gerard’s eyes dart from side to side to try and spot the next scare before it happens. He’s looking up at what appears to be a muslin-wrapped body hanging from a tree by its feet when Grant says something that makes him laugh, and for a moment it’s like he’s forgotten that he’s supposed to be intimidated by Grant, because he laughs bright and honest with his nose wrinkling in that same way that always makes Frank smile. Grant beams with delight, first at Frank, then at Gerard, and Gerard’s laughter stutters to a stop. Frank doesn’t mind, though. He’ll take the small victories for now.

Frank is just starting to think they must be nearing the end of the walk when it happens. Gerard is starting to relax, talking almost as much as Grant is, and Mikey has apparently checked out for the evening and is texting on his phone when two actors in torn, bloody hospital gowns burst from the bushes with chainsaws complete with sound effects. They dash towards the group laughing maniacally and the four of them break into a run. Frank goes to release Gerard’s arm so they can both run faster, grinning wildly, but Gerard has an iron grip on him and clings tightly as he tries to keep up, Frank’s shorter legs somehow working faster. They run until Frank’s lungs are burning in the cold air and his knees are jelly, until, up ahead, Grant slows to a stop and they crash into him, Frank laughing uncontrollably with Gerard still hanging off his arm. Grant catches them both easily and Gerard hides his face while Frank gasps for breath, his heart pounding in his ears.

“That was fuckin’ crazy!” He exclaims, eyes filled with joy.

Grant meets his eyes with a grin of his own, and kisses his forehead. Gerard just shivers between them, shaking his head rapidly from side to side.

“No…” he mutters, his voice muffled by his cloak, or Frank’s jacket, or Grant’s suit. Frank can’t really tell where his head is inside the bundle of black cloth. “No, no, nope, no thank you, please can we do something else next year, anything else, this is not fun…” He trails off, still muttering, and Frank giggles and pets his head gently. Mikey saunters over, still texting, and not looking the least bit out of breath. Some things never change, Frank thinks wryly.

Once it’s clear Gerard is just being melodramatic and isn’t actually about to have a breakdown, Grant heads off to get them all coffee from the little kiosk further down the path, and Frank drags Gerard behind him, realizing as they get closer that the coffee kiosk is on the outside and there’s something inside the building itself.

“Oh my God, is that a freaking _carousel_?” Frank asks, peering in one of the archways. His eyes light up when he sees that, yes, it _is_ a freaking carousel! Mikey raises a single eyebrow and leans to one side to follow Frank’s gaze.

Gerard looks unsure, still a little shaken. “Dude, I am so not drunk enough for this right now…” he says, and Frank chuckles, hanging off Gerard’s arm.

“Come on!” He wheedles. “It’s my _birthday_...”

Gerard rolls his eyes but lets Frank drag him into the line even as he protests that it’s _not_ Frank’s birthday, not for, like, another _week_ , and his eyes visibly widen when he can see inside properly.

“Is that a fucking giraffe?” He exclaims, and sees him looking past the traditional carousel horses with wide eyes.

“I’m totally riding the lion!” Frank grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and Gerard giggles, sweet and high-pitched.

“Okay, fine, sign me the fuck _up_ , motherfucker.”

Frank is so excited that Gerard is coming with him that he doesn’t even care that Mikey has managed to sneak away and is now leaning up against the wall by the exit. Frank rolls his eyes. The fucker always had seemed to move around like he was a ghost, he remembers.

By the time it’s their turn, Frank’s lion is taken, but Gerard’s giraffe is still empty. Frank could go and find another crazy animal hidden amongst all the horses, but he ends up on a grey-and-white speckled horse dressed in green and yellow, which just so happens to be right next to Gerard’s giraffe. The attendant looks at them both until they buckle up - on a fucking _carousel_ , seriously? - and then they’re off, spinning round and round and sharing looks of childish glee with each other. Gerard’s eyes are sparkling in the overhead lights, the shimmer made all the more obvious thanks to the dark makeup surrounding each socket, and for a moment, Frank finds himself surprised by how beautiful he looks. The thought stuns him and he looks away quickly, before, thankfully, the ride comes to a gradual stop and they disembark. Gerard is still smiling brightly when they find Mikey and Grant. Grant hands them their coffee, and it’s easy for Frank to shake off the feeling, getting up on his tiptoes to plant a kiss on Grant’s cheek in thanks.

“Did you know there are over 2,000 dead bodies buried right here in the park?” Grant asks them curiously.

“Woah,” Frank offers, a little gobsmacked. “So if the zombie apocalypse comes, get the fuck out of Brooklyn....”

Gerard snorts into his coffee, sipping it then hissing when it burns his tongue. “Yeah, right. You’d be out in the street with nothing but a baseball bat and a battlecry.”

Frank grins obnoxiously from behind his cup, curling his gloved hands around it to make the most of the warmth. “Guilty.”

They walk with their drinks for a while, chatting easily now as steam curls up from their cups into the cold air, until Frank sees a sign for a haunted hayride.

“No way…” He exclaims excitedly. Gerard looks at the sign and balks.

“Nope.” He says firmly, shaking his head. “I did the haunted walk and got the fuckin’ pants scared off me, _and_ I rode the carousel. I’ve done my best friend-ly _it’s not even your birthday_ duties for this year, motherfucker.”

Frank pouts but Gerard stands firm.

“Why don’t you go?” Grant asks, gesturing between Frank and Mikey. “I can keep Gerard here company.”

Both Frank and Mikey look to Gerard, but he doesn’t seem half as bothered by the prospect as he would have earlier in the night. Frank looks back at Mikey, and Mikey looks at Frank, and they share a grin. Frank kisses Grant on the cheek again, muttering a soft _thank you_ in his ear, then takes off behind Mikey, heading for the next wagon.

The hayride isn’t as fun as the walk had been, but it is creepier. The lanterns play with the shadows around them and whispers come at them from inside the bushes and up in the trees, soft enough to be the wind until they start hissing at them to get out, to turn back, to run while they still can… It makes the hairs on the back of Frank’s neck stand on end, and when something dark and menacing swoops down at them, he actually jumps. Frank is pretty glad Gerard refused to ride this with them, because he would _not_ have been happy.

When they make it back, Gerard and Grant are still talking, and Mikey begs out, clearly realizing Gerard is mostly comfortable with Grant now. He cites an early start in the morning and Frank doesn’t call him on it and lets him go even though he knows it’s probably a lie.

When Frank looks back over at them, he sees them still engrossed in conversation, their brows creased in concentration and hands waving all over the place. Dimly, Frank thinks he should probably be a little bit jealous, but when he looks at the pair of them, he just doesn’t feel it. He just feels happy and warm because they’re getting on so well, and sure, maybe some of that can be attributed to the way his pulse was finally starting to return to a nice, normal pace after being through the roof for so long, but… Frank shrugs to himself. Maybe he just isn’t the jealous type. He wanders back over to them with his hands in his pockets, and Grant’s arm lifts easily for him once he’s within reach, inviting Frank under it and into his embrace.

“What’s your dream, Gerard?” Grant is asking softly, smiling. He never seems to stop smiling. “I know Frank’s, he wants to play music. But what about you?”

Frank watches them carefully, quietly intrigued. Grant is treating Gerard like he’s just as important to him as Frank, and fuck, Frank certainly doesn’t have a _problem_ with that, it’s just that none of the other guys he’d been with had ever seemed to pay as much attention to his friends as they had him. He loves how Grant is looking at Gerard right now, straight in the eye and giving him all his attention.

Gerard blushes a little beneath the intensity of his gaze. Frank knows what that’s like. Gerard’s eyes flicker nervously over to Frank’s now that he’s returned, and Frank smiles back.

“I guess...” Gerard starts slowly, awkward in a way Frank isn’t used to seeing him now. “I wanna work in comics. Drawing, writing, editing, any of it. All of it. I applied for SVA, like last year, or… a couple years ago now, actually, but I guess they didn’t like my portfolio. I’m still kinda working on it… I also applied for an internship at DC one time but...” He shrugs, clearly trying to be nonchalant about it. “It didn’t work out.”

Grant frowns. “Really? But you have some fantastic ideas! All the things you’ve just told me you have swimming around in your head, surely they’d love any one of those?”

Frank doesn’t feel as lost as he probably should; Gerard had shared all sorts of thoughts and story ideas and character designs with Frank over the months they’d known each other, and he knows how smart Gerard is.

Gerard just purses his lips. “Well… I kinda…”

Frank eyes him and raises a pointer finger. “You got anxious and clammed up, didn’t you?” He doesn’t mean it to sound quite as accusing as it comes out, and he shoots Gerard an apologetic look when the other man meets his eye. Gerard just nods sadly.

“I’d just got promoted at the bookstore, and like, it’s fuckin’ hard being interviewed, man, there’s so much pressure to like, dress right and be your best self and all this corporate fuckin’ bullshit that shouldn’t have anything to do with fucking comic books-”

Frank recognizes a Gerard rant when it starts, and this is definitely one. He and Grant guide Gerard carefully through the throng of people leaving the park as he gestures angrily and shares everything he thinks is wrong with the industry and the world at large, and they share a fond look over his head. Frank is quietly really fucking glad they finally got to meet, because it’s obvious Grant is just as enamored with Gerard as Frank is.

\---

The week before Frank’s birthday goes just about as slowly as ever when he’s looking forward to something. Grant takes him out for lunch on the Wednesday, and Frank is excited until Grant arrives and Frank sees his face.

“What’s wrong?” He asks immediately, setting the pile of books he’d been shelving down on the counter. Frank’s mind immediately starts running in circles, worrying about Grant’s health, about his job, about his mother’s health, about-

“I’d hoped to get to lunch before you noticed that.” Grant said. Well, that doesn’t make Frank feel any fucking better, does it…

Grant smiles at him, but it’s strained and almost apologetic. “I’m sorry, love,” he says, and Frank’s mind immediately grinds to a halt on _he wants to stop seeing me_. Grant must see his face fall, because he rushes to continue. “It’s work. The office has booked me for some signings in Glasgow next week…”

He pauses long enough for Frank to calm down, relaxing visibly, before he carries on.

“...for Halloween…”

“Oh,” Frank says, as it settles in. “ _Oh_.” He says again, as he realizes what that means. Grant’s going to be gone for his birthday.

It’s okay, Frank thinks. It’s not a big deal. It’s just a birthday, he has one every year, and come on, he’s an adult, it’s not like birthdays really _matter_ anymore anyway. So why, then, does he feel so disappointed?

"I'm sorry, love," Grant says again, and he genuinely looks it.

Frank waves a hand. "It's not a big deal. Don't even worry about it." He smiles and hopes it looks convincing, because the last thing he wants is to be _that guy_ , the clingy, needy one who can't go two minutes without texting and needs to be with his significant other all the fucking time.

Except his heart is telling him that maybe he's exactly like that and Grant... He looks genuinely sad too, so maybe, maybe that's okay? To be that guy?

Grant takes his hand and they go for lunch. Today it's a little mom-and-pop cafe a few streets over that sells the best soup Frank thinks he's ever tasted. As Frank's paying the bill - because he refuses to be totally kept and just because he doesn't have Grant's kind of money doesn't mean he can't pay for their food sometimes - Grant invites him for dinner, too. Frank agrees immediately, and realizes that he's so far past being _that guy_ that it's too late to do much about it now, and he doesn't even care.

Grant is right on time to pick him up that night, as always. Frank had dressed nicely, wearing the tie this time and a blazer jacket he'd invested in just after their second date along with black jeans and a navy collared shirt. He's brushed his hair back and shaved neatly, and is just slipping on his boots when Grant knocks.

"Hey." he grins, opening the door and grabbing his coat and scarf.

"Hello, love," Grant smiles warmly, and Frank's heart flutters like he's a fucking teenager. Grant wraps him up in a full-body hug, Frank's head fitting comfortably under his chin, and he automatically tilts up for a kiss before they part. Grants mouth is soft and warm and familiar as it returns Frank's kisses, and Grant lets Frank kiss him for longer than he normally would before they separate to make their way down to the car.

"I thought we'd do something different tonight," Grant tells him as he's buckling up and unwinding his scarf in the warm interior. "In honor of your birthday."

Frank waves his hands again and insists it's fine, because he really doesn't want Grant to feel guilty for doing his job, but Grant insists, and Frank knows him well enough to know there's no arguing with him when he gets like this, so he just settles back in his warmed seat, wriggling happily, and lets Grant drive.

They drive for slightly longer than Frank is used to, and he's about to ask where Grant's taking him when they pull into an underground parking garage for a nice-looking apartment block. Frank's heart skips as he realizes where they must be. This is _Grant’s place_.

He takes Grant's hand again and the older man leads him through the parking garage, through the lobby - with a manned desk! - and up about fucking twelve or thirteen floors in the elevator. There's an elevator! And it works! Frank shouldn't be surprised, really, but this is New York - even without being terribly extravagant this place must still cost a small fortune to keep. Grant unlocks the door - one of six on this floor - and ushers Frank inside with a small smile - his nervous one, Frank now knows. He takes off his boots out of habit and stows them behind the door, then stands to take the place in.

Oh, is it beautiful... The main living space is open, kitchen becoming dining becoming lounge in that magazine-worthy way with hardwood flooring and shining countertops and plush couches with cushions, instead of the standard New York "let's see if we can fit some kitchen cabinets and a table in the living room" chic. Immediately overshadowing everything else is easily the insane floor-to-ceiling glass that stretches the entire length of the living area. Frank can see the never-ending lights of the city for miles, and the other apartment buildings around them aren't enough to diminish the breathtaking view. Frank realizes he's been unconsciously walking towards it when Grant closes the door behind them and slips Frank's coat from his shoulders, taking his scarf too to hang them both up. Frank thanks him softly, and Grant smiles.

The kitchen has expensive-looking silver appliances and a breakfast bar with four artfully mismatched stools and bare bulbs in copper wire cages hanging in a row just above it. Frank sits down on one of them when Grant pulls it out for him, then goes to the fridge to fix them some drinks. The cabinets are a matt gray so dark it's almost black and the countertops are white marble with sharp edges, the sink sunken into them like it's been carved from the same chunk of rock. The tiles are textured black and gray and the fixtures are all copper, with open glass shelves either side of the sink held up with shining copper brackets, and Grant has accented with a simple wire fruit basket piled high with fruits Frank knows, and a few he doesn't.

The dining area is a simple dark wood table between the kitchen and living area with matching high backed chairs, two places already set with candles, unlit, in the center. Frank blushes a little and his eyes skate over it. So far, everything is classy and elegant and, if Frank's honest, equal parts exactly what he expected and nothing like he expected at the same time. Grant is a bit of a homebody without too much of an interest in fashion and interior design but, Frank supposes, this kind of place was probably put together by a designer before it was even put on the market - Grant probably moved in to it looking just like this.

The living area is where it starts to look more like Grant. There are two long Chesterfield couches - which Frank only recognizes because his mom has always, always wanted a Chesterfield - with an impressive black fireplace between them. The mantle is bare, a simple, oversized skeleton clock hanging above it, but it's the shelving on either side that really makes this start to feel like Grant's place. It's black, naturally, set into the walls from floor to ceiling and covering the entire expanse of the room, and it's stuffed to the gills with more things than Frank can take in in one go. Grant shoots him a grin.

"Feel free to explore, love," he offers, moving easily around the kitchen and flipping on a burner, then he turns back to the fridge and starts pulling things out. "Don't feel like you have to sit there and watch, and as my guest you certainly aren't cooking."

"Okay, but I _am_ doing the dishes." Frank says, giggling brightly at the horrified look Grant gives him. He takes his drink - a glass of coke with a healthy splash of spiced rum - and hops down from the counter to poke through those shelves.

There's books, of course, so many books, new and old and really, _really_ old, filling every shelf all the way up. Some of the spines look near enough antique, with titles like _The Antichrist Legend_ and _The Alchemical Works of Geber_. They sound fascinating, and Frank looks over as Grant cooks, wondering if he's read them all and whether he'd tell Frank about them, or let him read them for himself. He feels like he'd need gloves on to even touch some of them.

The bottom rows of shelves hold about as many comic books as Frank had expected, which is to say, hundreds. There's the titles Frank has heard of, the familiar _Spider-Man_ and _X-Men_ and _Batman_ , then there's the titles he's learned of thanks to Gerard, the _Y: The Last Man_ and _Atomic Robo_ , and a few trades of _Chew_ , which Frank fucking loves because it is hysterical. Gerard had sold it to him as, "A guy whose superpower is to be able to see the entire history of whatever he eats, so like, the tree an apple was grown on and who picked it and where it was packaged and shit. And- stay with me, okay- one day, he finds out it doesn't just work on food - it works on people, too." And well, how could Frank not read it after _that_ little synopsis? Then, then there are the comics Frank has never heard of, and would question whether Gerard had heard of, too. Titles like _Southern Bastards_ and fucking _Sex Criminals_ , which of course Frank has to slide out from the shelf. Grant sees him looking and chuckles.

"You have good taste, Frank," he praises, frying something in a pan and adding a glug of oil. "That one's about a couple who realize they share a superpower - they can stop time every time they orgasm." Frank shivers as the word leaves Grant's lips. God, it's been too long...

Grant, hopefully not noticing, carries on. "Naturally, they turn to a life of crime, at least, until they encounter a police team who also have their own sex-related superpowers. It's very funny." He peers into the oven, then begins chopping some herbs. "Take anything you like, or anything you think Gerard might like. I know you two will look after them."

The way he says 'you two' is like he thinks of them as a unit, a fond edge to his voice. It makes Frank feel warm and happy, and he feels comfortable shooting off a text to Gerard.

_dude grants comic cllction is like nuthin uve evr seen. ud lose ur fckin mind!_

Grant chats as he cooks and Frank browses the comics, telling Frank about how much he’d enjoyed talking to Gerard the week prior.

“He has some fascinating ideas, Frank,” Grant says, looking up from his simmering pot. “He was telling me about a universe he’s been thinking about for a while, a, what did he call it… a dystopian sci-fi adventure exploring the chaos of modern life and money, huge corporations and fat cats and success through the eyes of a young girl. The way his mind works, it’s like nobody else I’ve ever met before. It’s like he has a million and one different threads that he’s following at any one time, but he picked up on something I said about Scorsese movies and he just _got it_.”

Grant’s gushing, and instead of making Frank feel inferior or uncomfortable, he just feels so fucking happy that Grant likes his friend so much. He gets it, too. Gerard is a fucking genius, no other word for it. He’d said something to Frank once, when they’d been talking about art and expression - admittedly Gerard had been doing most of the talking, but Frank’s learning to hold his own - and Gerard had said something along the lines of art being about sharing, not giving or forcing, because you can only give your perspective on something, and in that, you’re sharing your art. He said _to be really giving and sharing your art means not thinking about what it’s going to be, and not thinking about the money it could or could not make for someone else, or yourself._ Frank remembers the moment clearly, remembers that that’s when he’d gone from thinking ‘wow, this guy is smart’ to ‘holy fuck, you are a genius’, because from anyone else it would have sounded irritating and pretentious, but the way Gerard had said it was so fucking genuine and heartfelt that Frank could _feel_ how much he believed in what he was saying.

It’s all he can do to nod in agreement, and he asks Grant if Gerard told him about the idea he had for the kids with superpowers. He hadn’t, so Frank lays that one out on the table too as he flicks through comic book issues, telling Grant all about Spaceboy, the boy with the gorilla body, Rumour, the girl who can make anything come true by uttering the words _I heard a rumour_ , Seance, who can speak to the dead, and Vanya the misled musical sister-turned-supervillain. Grant hangs on every word, and Frank wishes he had Gerard’s way of speaking and his grasp of the universe to really do it justice. He also lets slip that Gerard has doodled a couple of the characters for him already, and Frank still has the drawings. Grant makes him promise to show him the next time they go out together, and of course Frank agrees, because Gerard’s ‘doodles’ are these fucking amazing, intricate comic profiles that Frank wouldn’t even be able to imagine in his own head, let alone get down on paper.

After some serious debate over the comics on offer, Frank keeps hold of _Sex Criminals_ and adds _Afterlife Archie_. He takes out a book called _Tales of the Leather Nun_ , the cover taken up entirely by a practically naked woman wearing a habit, but he ends up putting it back after he flips through and figures out it's basically bizarre, perverted stories about nuns and priests. Frank's not at all surprised Grant owns such a book, but one sex-related comic is enough for now. He hovers over _Rat Queens_ for a while but eventually replaces it with _Revival_ \- the cover is a snowy barn in the middle of nowhere with a girl in a sweater in the foreground, holding a machete as her dead eyes stare into Frank's. It's creepy as fuck and Frank loves it. Sorry, _Rat Queens_ , maybe next time.

Gerard doesn't reply, but Frank isn't surprised. He's probably second guessing everything right now, worried about interrupting their date even though Frank _just_ texted him, because maybe they're eating now and his text would disturb their conversation, or maybe, fuck even knows, Frank loves Gerard dearly but he can't say he understands how the guy's anxiety-ridden brain works all the time. He sends another text, just to calm him down.

_stop freakin out, i got u sm comics to chk out. talk 2u 2moro_

It's enough, apparently, because Gerard replies a few moments later.

_Enjoy your date!_

_nerd_ , Frank shoots back with a smile, then pockets his phone again. He brings his choices back to the counter, prompting Grant to abandon his pan on the stove to grab a few more titles which he thinks Frank should read. _Rat Queens_ comes back out, making Frank giggle, and _Injection_ , which Frank had heard of through Gerard but not actually read yet. Grant tells him a good friend of his wrote it, and Frank realizes this Warren is the same one he's been hearing crazy stories about for the last few months. Injection is apparently equal parts sci fi, horror, fantasy and ghost story, and Frank is immediately sold.

He sets the books aside for now and turns his attention back to Grant, already beginning to feel his absence despite him standing right there in front of him. Dinner looks to be about ready, and smells absolutely incredible. Frank's mouth begins to water as Grant carries the heavy pot he's been cooking in over to the table and sets it on a trivet in the center, then lights the candles and turns the overhead lights down a touch. As always, he holds Frank's chair out, and, as always, Frank blushes as he sits down. Grant lays out flatbread, which Frank doesn't even need to ask whether he can eat, and an impressive salad with a mound of rice in the center surrounded by herbed beets, green beans, carrots and potato chunks arranged in an alternating pattern around the outside, garnished with sliced boiled eggs and olives. As Grant pours Frank a glass of red wine, he tells him it's a traditional Moroccan salad plate, which they serve when hosting an honored guest. Frank's blush darkens even further and Grant smiles, taking Frank's hand and pressing a soft kiss to the back of it.

Grant serves Frank first, piling his bowl high with steaming casserole and flatbread and salad, then, finally, he sits down and serves himself, and they start to eat. The food is, of course, delicious, and Frank hears himself moaning softly after as he takes the first mouthful. The stew is rich and beautifully spiced with the sweetness of the potato, and Frank decides then and there that he has a new go-to comfort food. He puts his fork down and tears off a chunk of flatbread to scoop some more up, and closes his eyes as he chews so he can fully enjoy it. Then he licks his fingers clean and, as Frank's eyes slit open, he catches Grant watching him with the kind of look in his eyes that makes Frank's pulse rise, just a little.

The conversation over dinner is, as Frank has come to expect, easy and unhurried. It flows naturally whether they're talking about boring shit like work or whether they're sharing stories, Frank of growing up in a crime-riddled town in Jersey and Grant of growing up in a crime-riddled city in Scotland. At some point, Grant's foot finds the side of Frank's ankle and it rests there gently, not pushing or teasing. Frank smiles at him and Grant pours them each another glass of wine.

It takes Frank a moment to realize what that means. Grant isn't driving tonight. He could call Frank a cab, but that seems unlikely when, on every date so far he's driven and stuck to a single, small glass of his drink of choice. Which means Frank is staying over. Frank doesn't want to get ahead of himself now, because he's wanted this desperately ever since their first date, but maybe... maybe...

Frank swallows and turns back to his food, finishing the last few mouthfuls with a grateful hum. He's pleasantly full when Grant gets up and retrieves another dish from the fridge, and really, Frank should know better by now than to forget to leave room for dessert.

It looks like cheesecake, Frank thinks. It looks _exactly_ like cheesecake... which is at the same time Frank's favorite dessert in the world, and his worst nightmare, because those things are _full_ of lactose and gluten. He gives Grant the benefit of the doubt, but something must show on his face because Grant chuckles.

"Don't look so concerned, love," he murmurs gently, laying out fresh plates and forks and a bowl of glistening, fresh berries. "It's oats and almonds, cashews, coconut cream and coconut oil, and this vegan cream cheese I found online. All perfectly safe." He winks, and Frank _feels_ himself fall, right then over the dinner table, as if it hadn't been happening slowly all this time, a little more every time they met. Grant had gone out of his way to cook an entire meal that wasn't just delicious, but that Frank could eat every part of, _and_ he'd figured out a way to make Frank's absolute favorite dessert, and had gone _online_ \- Frank knows how much Grant hates computers - to buy weird ass ingredients to do it. Frank's heart feels so full it might burst, and he rounds the table to take Grant's face in his hands and kiss him hard on the mouth. Grant reels slightly but rocks back towards Frank and wraps his arms around him.

"Fuck, Grant," Frank gasps against his mouth between kisses. "I love you."

Grant melts beneath Frank's hands, then pulls him closer with a groan.

"Frank, love, you have no idea how long I've been waiting for you to say that."

Frank meets his eyes and sees the obvious adoration shining there. God, how had he missed that for so long? _Had_ he missed it? Or had they both fallen so easily that it had always been there, every time they looked at each other?

They fall into bed together, leaving the cheesecake forgotten on the dining table and their clothes in a trail across the floor to the bedroom, and Grant covers Frank’s body with his own, kissing him until his head starts to spin. Frank folds his calves around Grant’s hips and his arms around his neck, pressing his head back into the pillows with a little gasp as Grant’s lips trail down his neck. It’s never been like this before, this hot, this enticing, this fucking _electric_ , and Frank’s entire world narrows down to the gorgeous man slowly moving lower and lower between his thighs. By the time Grant gets his mouth on him Frank is whining and he starts to writhe when Grant plants wet, open-mouthed kisses on the weeping head of his dick.

“Please,” he begs easily, “Fuck, please, Grant, ‘ve wanted this for so fucking long…”

“Oh?” Grant asks, and Frank can _hear_ the fucking smirk in his voice. “How long, exactly?” He laps from the underside all the way up, over Frank’s frenulum to the swollen, damp tip.

Frank makes a desperate sound and bucks up towards Grant’s mouth. “Since the first night…” He admits, breathless with anticipation.

Grant hums happily and slides even further down the bed, dipping down to suck one of Frank’s heavy balls into his mouth. Frank makes a broken sound and squeezes his eyes shut, his dick twitching as more blood rushes to it, and Grant suckles on the paper-thin skin ever so gently. He releases it and draws the other one into his mouth and oh, fuck, it’s so hot in there that Frank feels like he might just die before they finish. He's so, so gentle that it feels like Frank is falling, or maybe floating, or something in between, caught up on the wave of bliss and only grounded by Grant's large hands on his hips. They're like an anchor, two warm points of contact he can focus on while his mind is threatening to fade out and hand his body over to Grant.

Pleasure sparks everywhere Grant touches, and Frank cries out when the older man spreads his cheeks and dips his tongue between them for a taste. His hips stutter, lost in the moment, and Grant holds him steady as he laps at him, soft and sure of himself. Frank can't stop moaning, a steady stream of bliss falling from his lips and winding up towards the ceiling. His fingers twist in the soft sheets and his heels shift relentlessly, hips twitching like they aren't sure where to go, and fuck, _fuck_ , Frank's been eaten out before but it's never felt quite like this. He's lifted his legs higher without realizing, giving Grant all the access he needs, and the flush from Frank's cheeks travels all the way down his chest now. His voice is rising, taking on a desperate edge, because God it feels incredible but he needs more, and as if he could read Frank's mind, Grant slides a finger inside his body. Frank's eyes fly wide open but it doesn't sting even a little. He's so wet, so relaxed and open already that there is no resistance and Grant's finger sinks all the way inside in one smooth stroke. Frank's eyes flutter and he whines long and high in his throat, hearing Grant chuckle softly against his thigh.

"Okay, love?" He asks, clearly delighted, and Frank nods rapidly.

"Fuck-" he curses. "Yeah, oh God, yeah..."

Grant chuckles again, all low and smooth, and Frank's cock jumps in response to the sound.

"I'm just getting started," he purrs, and Frank groans and settles in for the ride.

Grant pauses for a moment, shifting, and then there's a familiar and the shocking coolness of lube before he slips a second finger in alongside the first. Frank is so ready that there's barely a sting, pushing his hips down onto Grant's hand eagerly, and the older man lays his other hand on Frank's stomach to calm him.

"Patience, Frank," Grant says, his voice soft and unhurried. "We've got all night."

Frank doesn't think he can wait five more minutes, let alone all fucking night. Thankfully, Grant doesn't make him. He curls his two fingers and Frank makes a shaking, broken _nnghhh_ sound as the older man finds his prostate. Frank's no stranger to his prostate, but he is unfamiliar with how expertly Grant handles it. He presses the pads of his fingers to it and starts to rub, feather-soft and in smooth circles. Frank gasps and his toes curl at the sensation that curls and winds through his body, settling in the pit of his stomach and working outwards from there.

"Oh-" he says breathlessly, then again, "Oh..."

Frank's cock throbs and he feels a bead of precome grow on the tip. It gets heavier the more Grant rubs until it's too large to stay put, and it slips down the length of his erection. Grant hums, apparently pleased with this reaction, and presses a little harder as his other hand comes up to skate along Frank’s perineum. He presses down on the swell of Frank’s prostate from the other side, too, and Frank keens high in his throat. He starts to pant, more precome oozing from his tip, and as Grant presses firmer still but keeps those little circles so maddeningly slow, Frank begins to lose his mind. He didn't know it was _possible_ for his body to produce so much preejaculate without an orgasm, but there it is, glistening and leaking steadily from his cockhead and making his belly shine while he gasps for a breath he can't catch and scrabbles against the sheets for purchase. Grant continues to milk his prostate until Frank is sobbing and inarticulate, convinced that every little rush of pleasure and spurt of come is an orgasm in itself. It feels good enough to be and he feels completely out of his mind, struck dumb and overwhelmed with pleasure.

Then, and only then, does Grant move up the bed, fingers still buried in Frank's body and all but torturing him, to kiss him. Frank can't get his mouth to cooperate and ends up sobbing into Grant's mouth, but the other man doesn't seem to mind, offering Frank his tongue and coaxing his out to play. It's wet and messy and Frank has no control over his mouth, and it just winds him higher. It's like Grant knew it would, too, because Frank feels his smirk against his cheek and hears his voice rumbling softly.

"Come on, love," Grant urges gently. "You can do it..."

Frank shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut.

"I can't-" he gasps, voice shot. "I can't, Grant- Grant please, oh, ohhh, please touch me, oh..."

Frank can't see Grant shake his head but he feels the motion against his cheek and feels Grant draw Frank's lower lip, swollen and sore from him biting it, into his mouth. He soothes it with his tongue and Frank moans, arching towards him.

"Yes, you can," Grant says firmly, like he knows Frank's body better than he does, and fuck, Frank can believe that with how he's playing him like a fiddle right now because he is close, godddammit. "I've waited so long... Imagined it so many times... Let me see you come, my beautiful boy."

Oh fuck. Oh _fuck_. Frank's actually gonna, oh shit, he feels it now, spreading and catching like wildfire, grabbing onto his nerve endings and seeping into every follicle just before it sweeps over him in a rush. The sounds he hears himself make are like nothing he's ever heard before as the delicious, white heat of orgasm sings in his veins, and it lasts so long that his legs are still shaking even after his body has fallen back against the sheets and he's left gasping for breath, covered in a light sheen of sweat and his belly streaked with come.

Frank feels Grant move, and when he pries his eyes open, the older man is hovering over him and smiling wide and content, like _he_ was the one who just had an orgasm. But Frank can feel the hardness of Grant’s cock against his thigh, so he knows that isn’t true. Grant kisses him deep and hot, snatching the little breath Frank had managed to steal away from him, and Frank untangles his hands from the sheets to wrap them around Grant’s shoulders instead, hanging on tightly. His legs come up around Grant’s hips, inviting him closer, and Grant settles there easily, his erection pressing insistently against Frank’s own softening flesh. He’s not done though, not by a fucking long shot. Frank can feel the excitement, less demanding now but still thrumming inside him like an E string, and he rolls his hips to rub them together, hissing into Grant’s mouth at the sensation. It’s nothing like being touched after what Frank thinks of as a regular orgasm - his dick isn’t slightly sore and over-sensitive, because neither him or Grant ever laid so much as a finger on it. Frank rocks his hips again experimentally and feels more than hears Grant moan softly.

“Please,” he whispers against the older man’s lips as Grant continues to kiss him, deep and unhurried and like he could do this all night. Fuck, he probably could, but Frank _wants_ , so fucking bad. “Please fuck me, Grant…”

Grant moans again and stops kissing Frank long enough to speak. He rests their foreheads together so they’re sharing the same breaths, and his eyes sparkle. “God, the way you say my name, Frank… It does things to a man.”

Frank smiles, pleased and proud, and Grant sneaks another kiss before he continues. “But no.” Frank’s heart falls. “I’m not gonna fuck you, not our first time.”

“But...” Frank insists immediately, rolling his hips again with a little whine. “Please, Grant, I need you inside-”

“Shh,” Grant hushes him, touching a fingertip to Frank’s lips. He feels Grant’s other arm moving, and it slides between his legs, two fingers slipping back inside his body easily. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t give you what you need. I just don’t want to _fuck_.”

Frank’s stomach clenches at the word fuck, said with such clear pronunciation and emphasis in Grant’s gorgeous accent, and his hips rock again, all on their own. Frank pants gently, his breath huffing over Grant’s mouth. He feels a third finger pressing firmly at his rim, and Frank breaths out long and slow, intentionally relaxing so that it can work in alongside the others. This is good… it’s not what he really _wants_ , but it’s still good. He feels nice and full, and the slight but familiar burn that he always relishes when he bottoms calms his needy hips. Grant kisses him again slowly and Frank meets his tongue, arms sliding around his neck as Grant leans closer and his body presses Frank’s legs higher. It almost, almost feels like they’re fucking like this, with Grant so, so close and filling him up so good.

That is, until Grant’s fingers disappear. Frank whines, high and pathetic. Grant just chuckles.

“Hush, love,” he says, smiling.

He feels Grant’s hands moving but they’re too close for Frank to be able to see what he’s doing. He does hear the crinkle of foil and the snap of a lubricant cap, though, and his chest twists in anticipation.

"Why do you think I waited so long for this?" He asks, meeting Frank's eyes. Frank can see the warm affection all but overflowing there. "I didn't want to fuck the first time I took you to bed... I wanted to make love to you..."

The force of the admission feels like a blow to the chest, even though Frank had already admitted as much himself and had _seen as much in Grant's eyes. He pulls Grant into a kiss so wet and messy it hardy lives up to the name, but Grant doesn't seem to mind, and Frank feels the blunt head of Grant's cock pressing against his resistance. Grant whispers, gently in his ear, "Relax, my beautiful boy," and Frank's body does, like it's hard wired into Grant's command. Grant's swollen head slips inside as the muscles give for him, and both he and Frank groan together at the sensation. Frank presses his head back against the pillows and rocks closer, driving Grant in deeper._

__

"Careful, love," Grant says, and Frank starts to shake his head because he doesn't _want_ to be careful. He wants the burn, wants it to hurt a little because fuck, he wants to remember this while Grant is away and he wants to feel it for as long as possible.

He shakes his head again and tries to tell Grant as much, but all Frank manages to get out is, "Wanna fuckin' feel you..."

That must be enough, because Grant moans under his breath and gets with the program, pushing with his hips to work his impressively fat cock past Frank's defences. It stings, burning intensely because Grant's dick is definitely thicker than his fingers were, but Frank arches and relishes it, knowing he'll be able to feel it all the way up his spine and across the back of his thighs tomorrow. It doesn't take long for Grant to bottom out now that he's working at it, and Frank lifts his legs at the thighs so that Grant can get deeper. He feels so fucking full, almost ready to burst, and it should probably be uncomfortable but the look on Frank's face is pure bliss.

"Oh, fuck," he gasps, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. "Yeah..."

Grant hums in response and bends Frank up like a pretzel to get at his mouth. They kiss, deep and a little filthy, and Frank's dick twitches and throbs between them. Grant must feel it because he chuckles and the sound rumbles through Frank's body and sends more blood down between his legs to where his cock is starting to swell again.

After a moment of Frank relishing the discomfort, his eyes closed and with his mouth slightly parted, Grant still hasn't started to move like Frank had expected. He drags his eyes open too find Grant watching him with a soft, fond smile, his eyes glittering and overwhelmed, and Frank feels his mouth smiling back.

"You are so beautiful..." Grant murmurs, making the blush on Frank's cheeks spread down his neck. He'd never been called beautiful before Grant, never imagined he'd like it, but fuck, he does. He's pretty sure Grant could call him fucking anything, and as long as he kept looking at him just like that, like Frank is his whole world, like Frank hung the fucking moon and start in the sky just for him, then Frank would fucking like it. Frank's mouth is open on a breath when Grant follows it up with, "I love you so much," and Frank moans, heat flooding his chest.

"I love you," he replies, voice shot, and rocks his hips experimentally before he gasps at the sensation. "Please, Grant, just... make me yours..."

Apparently Grant has a bit of a possessive streak, because he curses under his breath and rocks with Frank, then pulls out and thrusts back inside. Frank cries out gratefully, his body giving and parting to let Grant inside and his hands settle on Grant's shoulders, holding on as the older man settles into a rhythm. Each thrust is careful and calculated, slow with a little grind at the end which catches Frank's prostate, and Frank whines with over-sensitivity and arches into it eagerly.

"Holy shit," Frank gasps, the deep, slow fucking - lovemaking, his brain supplies helpfully - turning him to putty in Grant's arms. His voice is shredded and Grant just grins and, somehow, manages to get a little bit deeper. Frank cries out his pleasure softly and tosses his head, and shit, _shit_ , he's already come once without a hand on his dick, Frank really isn't confident he can do it a second time. But Grant moans, rolls his hips, and grinds the fat head of his cock over Frank's prostate, and Frank feels his dick throb and leak between them. He whines and writhes like it will help him claw back some control, but it's all for show - Frank has no desire for even the smallest fucking thing to change right now as he and Grant fuck so slow and sweet, Frank's fingers clutching and Grant's eyes burning into him.

It feels beyond good, especially as Grant begins to move that little bit faster to really stoke the fire burning in Frank's belly. They're pressed together everywhere, skin growing slick everywhere it touches, and Grant's cock is so deep it's like Frank can feel it all the way up to his fucking throat. His toes curl in midair and he plants his heels against Grant's lower back as he arches into him. Fuck, oh, fuck, it's gonna happen, Frank realizes slowly, feeling pleasure coiling and spreading. He's going to come, again, and- shit- fucking soon.

"Grant," Frank gets out urgently, voice rough and coloured with pleasure. "Oh fuck, Grant, m'gonna, please, please can I-"

Frank doesn't know why he's begging, but something about Grant just makes him do it, makes it feel like the right thing to do, and Grant's eyes darken like he agrees.

Grant's lips are slightly parted and his breathing is even, but he's flushed and gorgeous in the light.

"Come on, love," he urges, his own voice tight as if he's barely keeping it together even as his thrusts never falter. "Let me feel you... Come for me..."

"Ohhh," Frank moans, then he can't seem to stop, because the orgasm is rising inside him and he can't close his eyes or his mouth. "Ohh, oh my god, Grant, oh fuck, nghhh, fuuuck, ohh please oh please oh- oh god- oh-" Frank's eyes slide closed as the white-hot rush of orgasm takes hold of him and explodes through his body. He feels himself moving, bucking and writhing as Grant holds him tight, still working his hips as Frank's body clenches around him, tight and rhythmic as he comes, cock spilling between their bodies.

Then, he hears Grant moan, long and low, and the other man presses in deep, so fucking deep Frank can taste it, and stills. Frank hangs on tightly as his body shudders anew, feeling Grant shiver in his arms, and Frank is fucking delighted to realize Grant was struggling to hold on just as much as he was.

They come down together, still wrapped in each other's bodies, and Frank starts to giggle, bright and elated.

"I love you." He says, because he can and it feels so fucking good to finally say it out loud. "I love you..."

Grant grins back wide and his shoulders heave as he pants for breath and says, "I love you too."

Eventually, they remember the cheesecake, and they eat nearly half the pan between them, in bed with two forks and the covers pooled around their naked bodies, before they have sex again with Frank on top this time. He rides Grant hard, head tossed back and hands planted firmly on his chest so he can watch every expression cross Grant's face and look him right in the eye as he comes.

\---

Grant ends up being gone for just over a week, because his agent had booked the Glasgow signing for Halloween, and the Edinburgh signing for the following Saturday. Frank spends the first weekend at Gerard’s place drawing up character sheets for the campaign he’d agreed to join - Frank is a Pewterarm allomancer called Clodd, meaning he has the ability to ingest and call on, or ‘burn’ small flakes of pewter to enhance his physical abilities. Pewterarms, Gerard tells him, are colloquially known as ‘thugs’, because of their tendency to be used in battle as soldiers and as the muscle in underground thieving crews. Gerard creates a female character called Allaerin, an allomancer who can burn iron, giving her the ability to pull on any nearby metal. Gerard explains that while that might sound simple at first, being able to move things across the room, for example, with practice, an iron-burning allomancer, or ‘lurcher’, can use their abilities to pull themselves towards something heavier than them. If a lurcher was to use their abilities on a building with metal in the roof, they could pull themselves up onto the roof, effectively flying that small distance.

Gerard has printed out some blank character sheets for them, where Frank has filled in his name, class and ability, then they both fill in their characters’ strength, dexterity, intelligence, wisdom and charisma from a bank of ten points. Frank obviously goes for higher strength and dexterity, risking taking a negative point for wisdom to give him +1 charisma. Gerard takes the opposite, high charisma then hedging his bets across the rest of the abilities. Gerard also creates Mikey a tin-eye character - that is, an allomancer who burns tin to enhance their senses - but he leaves the rest blank for Mikey to fill in before their first game. It’s nice, Frank thinks, just hanging out like this. Gerard puts on some music and they talk shit long after their characters are finished, sharing chips and dip from the same bowl and just _talking_.

It’s different from their usual movie nights, somehow - they’ve got those down to a fine art by now. They get the train across to Jersey, then walk from the terminal to Gerard’s apartment, picking up dinner on the way. Gerard lets them in and plates up their food while Frank picks a movie from his ridiculously huge collection - there are more movies and comics hidden in boxes under the couch, in the closet, and in some of the kitchen cabinets, too - then they eat cross-legged on the floor with their plates on the coffee table. After, Gerard will pick one, they’ll have a couple sodas and maybe a beer - never too much, because inevitably one of them has to open the store in the morning, and Frank will crash out on the couch somewhere between movie two and three, Gerard’s running commentary a comforting background noise. When he wakes in the morning, they always have to rush to split bathroom time and get back into Brooklyn to open up, so one of them will run ahead to unlock while the other picks up breakfast and two fucking huge coffees - they usually rotate that so they don’t end up owing each other money.

It’s fun, and thankfully neither of them have gotten sick of the other’s almost constant presence yet, but today feels different. Gerard sits on the couch, legs crossed at the ankles and resting on the coffee table, while Frank has sprawled on the floor on his back, between the table and the couch and, somehow, underneath Gerard’s legs. He can’t remember how that happened, whether he laid down first and Gerard swung his legs up after, or whether Gerard’s legs were already there and Frank laid down, then maybe he wriggled underneath to poke his head out the other side to see Gerard’s face as he was making a point about something. Either way, he’s there now, and Gerard is passing him chips from the bowl for Frank to catch in his mouth every time he drops one over his head. He’s winning about half, the others landing in his hair or in his eye. He curses every time that happens, and Gerard peers over the edge of the couch, muttering a little ‘sorry!’ with an apologetic look on his face. Frank knows him well enough now to know he’s not doing it on purpose for shits and giggles - like Frank would given half a chance - he’s just easily distracted.

They’re not really talking about anything in particular, but somehow their conversation has wound its way back to childhood memories, and Gerard is telling Frank about how he realised he liked boys. There was a guy in his class, apparently, called Luke, and although Luke wasn’t much to look at from a teenage boy’s perspective, like, he wasn’t on the football team and he didn’t have great hair or a heart-stopping smile, Gerard had felt drawn to him in a way he hadn’t to anyone else before, ever. He’d gone home after school and that night had had his first sex dream, about making out with Luke in the locker room, and had woken up in a cold sweat. His parents, he tells Frank, weren’t exactly shy in their dislike of anything a bit ‘different’, and Gerard had been just about as different as different could be. They’d never been cruel to him, he says, but there was a reason he’d moved into his own place as soon as he could and didn’t go home very often. Frank feels like Gerard has just revealed something deeply personal to him, and when he glances up, the other man’s face is turned away but he doesn’t feel right, so Frank clambers up onto the couch and hugs him tight. Gerard leans gratefully into the touch and sighs, then Frank makes a stupid joke and Gerard giggles, and just like that, everything is alright again.

The night of Frank’s birthday, Dewees and Hambone take him to see a local band that Dewees has seen a couple times and thinks are going places. Unfortunately, that band’s vocalist and lead guitarist has come down with terrible flu and they have to cancel. The band that take their place is… shocking. Frank’s not even sure they’re playing the same _songs_ because the bassist is completely out of time with the drummer and the guy stuffed in the back on keyboards is smoking more than he’s playing anything. Even after a good few beers the band don’t sound any better, which is how Frank knows they really _must_ be awful.

He texts Gerard, mostly joking.

_omg u hv 2 cm save me, my ears r bleedin_

He’d told Gerard about the gig earlier, so the other man knew where it was, but given that they’d shut up shop about three hours ago, Frank figured he him to be back in Jersey by now. He’s obviously surprised then, when instead of texting him back, Gerard taps him on the shoulder not twenty minutes later.

“Gee!” He exclaims, shouting to be heard over the awful music. “You came!”

Gerard grins awkwardly and shrugs, scratching at the back of his head. He looks like he’s had a couple drinks already himself because his smile is wide and loose.

“I was in the area,” he says, which normally Frank would think was totally a line, but he knows Gerard, knows Gerard doesn’t _do_ lines, so he must have really been in the area.

“Really?” Frank asks anyway, and Gerard nods.

“Catching up with an old friend.” Gerard tells him, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “He and I were having dinner a few streets over.”

Frank looks behind Gerard and doesn’t see anyone.

“And you just left him there?” Frank doesn’t wait for an answer before something else springs to mind. “Was it a _date_?”

He can see Gerard’s blush even in the darkness of the club, and Gerard frantically shakes his head. “Fuck, no. Ray’s like, he’s like… we’ve known each other forever, man. No. He’s just getting us drinks.”

Frank waggles his eyebrows. “Buying you drinks, huh? Sure sounds like a date to me…”

Gerard slaps Frank’s arm but laughs, clearly able to tell Frank’s teasing him now. Frank is glad, relieved, even, that Gerard hadn’t just abandoned a perfectly good date for him. He throws an arm around Gerard’s shoulders with a grin, but before Frank can tease him anymore, Hambone steps into his peripheral vision.

“Dude, I thought you said the guy you’ve been seeing was away?” Hambone says. Frank shoots him a confused look, and Gerard splutters and ducks out from under Frank’s arm.

“Oh no, no I’m not, not his, no, that’s-” he shakes his head rapidly. “That’s not me, no way, we’re just, just friends-”

Frank saves him from carrying on, thwacking Hambone across the back of the head. “Idiot,” he says. “This is Gee, from the store.”

“Oh, right. My mistake.” Hambone just shrugs, clearly unconcerned, as a guy with the most epic hair Frank has ever seen comes up on Gerard’s other side. Gerard turns to him, looking relieved.

“Ray! Ray, this is Frank, and, uh-” he pauses. He’s met Dewees before, but Frank supposes he has no way of knowing this is Hambone, his other roommate. It could be anyone to Gerard.

“Hambone,” says Hambone, nodding towards Ray.

“Hey,” Ray grins, and Frank likes him immediately. His smile is genuine and as big as his ‘fro, and he’s brought enough drinks for all of them. He hands them each something that looks like coke but smells like it’s about eighty percent proof, and a clear shot that Frank downs immediately without smelling it. It burns on the way down, and he shoots Ray a grin.

“Happy birthday to me!”

Over the next few hours, all of them get very, very drunk. The music doesn’t get any better so they abandon the bar in search of another one, following Ray through the cold streets that do nothing to sober any of them up, to a place he and Dewees swear was always great back when they lived in Jersey and came over here all the time. Dewees is one of those guys who can’t go fucking grocery shopping without meeting someone he knows, so Frank’s not surprised they know each other. Somehow, the doorman lets five clearly drunk guys inside - Frank thinks one of them must pay him or something - and they drink some more under the guise of celebrating Frank’s birthday. The music is much better in this place - that, or Frank’s drunk enough now not to care - and he drags Gerard closer to the stage to jump and move and dance. Gerard must be just as drunk as Frank because he doesn’t even complain, just laughs when Frank stumbles and catches him before he hits the floor. Gerard himself sways dangerously and Frank feels them about to topple before, somehow, Gerard rights himself and Frank gets his footing, sort of.

“I think…” Frank giggles, leaning heavily on Gerard, “Maybe we’ve had enough…”

Gerard nods and joins in, the two of them giggling wildly as they make it out of the club and into a cab. Apparently they only give the cab driver one address, because as Gerard helps Frank out and up the steps, the cab drives off down the street. Maybe he’d been scared one of them would puke on his backseat. Frank scoffs. They’re not fuckin’ lightweights. Either way, apparently Gerard is staying over tonight. It’s not like it’s the first time, and besides, it’ll be kinda nice to have someone to talk to as he falls asleep.

The others are all still out, apparently, because the apartment is dark when they stumble inside and flop down onto the couch together. Gerard’s body is heavy against Frank’s, and they slowly slide down until he’s laying against the side of the couch.

“Thanks for inviting me tonight, Frankie,” Gerard says, and Frank can hear the smile in his voice.

“Totally.” Frank answers. “It w’s awesome, right?”

He feels Gerard nod against his shoulder, then there’s nothing but quiet breathing for a long moment before Gerard speaks up again.

“M’sorry for… y’know…” He said softly. “Thanks for not being weird about it…”

Frank frowns. He most definitely does _not_ know. “Weird about what?” He asks, and Gerard huffs out a laugh. Frank feels his warm breath on his arm and shivers.

“Y’know, about my… my crush, or fuckin’... whatever...” Gerard says, quiet and a little slurred. Frank’s brain is slow, slower than usual, especially on alcohol, and the wheels are still trying to turn when Gerard continues. “I know it’s inappropriate because, like, fuck, we work together and shit, and I was gonna say something but then you met Grant, and like, it wasn’t meant to be or whatever…”

Frank might be slow, but he’s not _that_ fucking slow. “Wait… You _like_ me?”

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t know,” Gerard scoffs. “Fuckin’ everyone knows. Just… Thanks. For being cool.” He lays a hand on Frank’s and Frank, unthinkingly, turns his hand over and laces their fingers together. He’s just now realising that probably isn’t a natural reaction to have with a platonic friend.

“I... didn’t…” Frank admits, and Gerard looks up at him, obviously baffled.

“Really?” He asks, but Frank barely hears him. Have they ever been this close before? If they have, has Frank ever really noticed how long his eyelashes are, and how brightly his eyes shine? Has he ever really noticed how soft Gerard’s mouth looks? If he has, how has he not wanted to feel it against his own before, to find out if it’s really as soft as it looks?

Gerard’s eyes drop down to Frank’s mouth, and he wets his lips subconsciously. Frank feels himself holding his breath, and suddenly Gerard’s hand on his chest - when had he put that there? - feels like it’s burning through his clothes. Then Gerard meets his eyes, his gaze filled with nerves and want and _hope_ and Frank… Frank closes the space between them and kisses him.

Gerard makes a broken sound against his mouth, his fingers tightening around Frank’s, and Frank moves a hand up to Gerard’s cheek and tilts his head a little to slide his tongue tentatively into his mouth. Gerard shudders all over as Frank kisses him, meeting his tongue and shifting half into his lap. Gerard’s making small sounds against his mouth and it’s fucking addictive, every little one making Frank’s skin tingle and his belly flip over. He’s getting hard beneath the thigh Gerard has slung over his leg but the sensible part of his brain is currently offline and instead of taking that as a warning, Frank just kisses him deeper.

Gerard moans as Frank’s tongue sweeps through his mouth, and Frank, Frank just wants to hear that sound again. He tugs Gerard into his lap and the other man goes easily, his own erection hard and wanting against Frank’s stomach.

“Frankie…” he whispers against Frank’s mouth. “Oh God, Frankie…”

Frank hums in response and sucks on Gerard’s bottom lip. Fuck, it really is as soft as it looks despite how much Gerard chews it. He licks it and Gerard whimpers.

“I… I’ve wanted you for so long, fuck…” Gerard curses, his eyes wide and disbelieving. “Never thought this would… you would…” He touches Frank’s face almost reverently and Frank leans into his fingers like a cat, not needing Gerard to finish the sentence. His friend shifts in his lap, inadvertently grinding against Frank’s hard on, and Frank groans low and hot.

“Fuck, that sound…” Gerard whispers. He does it again, and so does Frank, his fingers twitching with how bad he wants to grab Gerard’s hips and rut against him until he comes. “Frankie, oh Frankie, I want to… will you let me… please, please can I... “ He drops his hand between Frank’s legs and Frank cries out in surprise as Gerard’s fingers find his dick. He nods immediately, ready for whatever Gerard wants to do, but Gerard keeps talking like he hasn’t noticed. “Please, I wanna, can I, can I suck you, please, s’your birthday…” Frank’s heart skips and he’s still nodding, and finally Gerard seems to notice because he grins so bright Frank thinks it might blind him.

Gerard kisses him like Frank had just asked to suck _him_ off, but before Frank can really get into it, the other man has slid down between his legs and is working on getting his jeans open. Fuck, he works fast. Gerard’s hands are shaking and fumbling, whether from alcohol or nerves Frank isn’t sure, so he helps him get his pants open. He’s about to shimmy them down his hips but Gerard dives straight in with his hand, tugging Frank’s boxers out of the way so that his dick springs free. He stares at Frank’s erection for long enough that Frank might have started to feel uncomfortable if it wasn’t for the starving look in Gerard’s eyes and the way his lips part and his tongue rests on the lower, like he’s already desperate for a taste.

Frank swallows and braces himself just before Gerard gets his mouth on him and he loses all ability to speak. Gerard’s mouth is wide and eager, taking Frank in deep from the first moment, and Frank curses, his head falling back against the couch cushions. Gerard wriggles closer between his legs as he sucks him and Frank gets his hands in Gerard’s hair, hanging on tightly as the other man’s mouth drives him out of his mind. It’s probably the least graceful blowjob Frank has ever gotten, and Frank finds himself wondering if Gerard’s done much of this before. He’s a grown adult so he must have, Frank decides, but he doesn’t seem to know what to do with his teeth or his hands and it’s messy and sloppy and, and Frank’s cock is leaking steadily onto Gerard’s tongue so there’s precome and saliva everywhere, but fuck, it feels fucking _incredible_. It’s like Gerard is sucking his fucking soul out through his dick and Frank’s close way sooner than he would normally be when he’s getting a drunk blowjob.

“Fuck,” he swears, clenching his teeth, and his fingers in Gerard’s hair, too. Gerard whines and sucks him harder, and Frank says again, “Oh, _fuck_. Gee-” It doesn’t feel half as weird as Frank thinks it should to be saying that name during sex. “Gee, Gee, _Gee_ -”

He means to tell Gerard he’s close, to warn him so Gerard can back off if he wants, but he never gets it out because Gerard moans obscenely around his dick and slurps at him, and Frank loses it with a cry, coming hard down Gerard’s throat. And Gerard, Gerard fucking _swallows_.

Frank shudders again and his fingers slowly release Gerard’s scalp. He pets his hair gently, watching as a soft, satisfied smile appears on Gerard’s lips. Frank feels it mirrored on his own face, and Gerard lays his cheek against Frank’s thigh with a quiet, pleased hum. His lips are swollen and red, his chin wet and his hair in an even crazier disarray than usual. He’s gorgeous, completely, and while that isn’t a thought Frank is surprised by anymore, he’s slightly struck by how _much_ he feels it. It’s not a feeling he’s used to having, not when Grant’s not around, and-

Oh, shit. _Grant_.

Frank’s blood immediately runs cold, the comforting warmth of alcohol and orgasm running for the hills. Fuck, oh _fuck_ , what just happened? Frank looks down at Gerard with wide, horrified eyes, and Gerard must feel him tense or something because he opens his eyes on a concerned frown, like he doesn’t understand how fucking _bad_ what they just did is. Frank’s eyes are so wide that, even in the dark, he’s able to watch the light slowly fade from Gerard’s eyes.

“But…” he whispers brokenly, his voice rough. “I thought…” His eyes start to shine again, but it’s not from happiness, and he stands up quickly. “I should go…”

Frank panics. “No, Gee, you don’t have to-” He starts, but Gerard is already turning away and racing for the door. It’s cold out there, and there are no trains this late and a cab to Jersey at this time of night is going to cost him a fucking _fortune_ so Frank leaps up, trying to chase him and do up his pants without catching his dick in the zipper at the same time. “Gee, wait, you can still stay here!”

Gerard shakes his head and opens the front door just as Dewees and Hambone stumble up the stairs. He sniffs, and Frank gets close enough to see tears on his cheeks before Gerard slips past them and dashes down the stairs, the three of them dumbly watching him go.

Dewees shrugs in a way that Frank has, over the years, translated to ‘whatever man, I’m too tired and/or drunk for this’ as he shoulders past Frank who is still hovering uselessly in the doorway. He hears the outer door slam a few floors down, and it sounds horribly final. Fuck, he’s really fucking screwed up this time. He backs away from the door slowly and sits down, slumping into the cushions with his head in his hands. Hambone picks his way over, walking the careful walk of someone who knows they have had too much to drink and is feeling hyper-aware of every step they take. Hambone sits down heavily next to him.

“Something happen with your boyfriend?” He asks, and Frank doesn’t even have the strength to punch him in the shoulder for it.

“He’s not my fucking _boyfriend_ ,” he spits out, then lowers his voice. “If he was, I wouldn’t be in this fuckin’ mess…”

Hambone’s quiet for a long moment, so long that Frank thinks he’s probably fallen asleep.

“He seems to like you a lot,” he mutters sleepily, and Frank startles, glancing at him from behind the hands he’s using to cover his eyes.

“Not anymore. I fucked up, Ham. Fuckin’ big time.”

Hambone shrugs, like he doesn’t quite understand the gravity of this, and pats Frank heavily on the shoulder. Frank rocks with the force of it. “It’ll all work out.” He offers helpfully, then leans back and closes his eyes.

Frank sucks in a shaky breath and scrubs his hands over his face, trying not to think about Grant, all those miles away. Scotland’s like, five hours ahead right now so he’d be in bed right now, probably, or maybe just waking up. He’ll probably send Frank a text soon saying something like _good morning, my beautiful boy_ , or something equally sappy that will make Frank’s heart skip, except now… now he feels kind of sick just thinking about it. He takes out his phone anyway, hovering over Grant’s name in his list of messages. Gerard is right there underneath, and Frank taps his name before he can overthink it.

 _gee, plz cm back_ , he writes. _its cold. plz?_

Gerard, predictably, ignores him.

\---

Frank wakes later with a horrific crick in his neck and a pounding headache unlike anything he’s ever felt before. Or, at least, not since the last time he got that drunk. He checks his phone immediately and sees two unread messages. _Two_.

When he opens them and sees that they’re both from Grant, Frank feels a confused sort of disappointment warring with the affection, because Gerard still hasn’t answered him.

 _Good morning, gorgeous,_ the first one says. The second, sent fifteen minutes later, just tells Frank that Grant will be in meetings all day today, but he’ll try and call when he gets home later. Frank is equally excited about, and dreading, that phone call. He doesn’t have work today, which is either a blessing or a curse, because Frank doesn’t know what to fucking _do_ with himself. Normally on his days off he’ll hang out with one of the guys if they’re off too, or he’ll go over to Gerard’s - which is clearly off the table now. Hambone is still passed out and snoring loudly on the couch next to Frank, and there’s no sign of Dewees but the bedroom door is still closed, so he’s probably in a similar state.

He busies himself with the necessities like coffee and peeing, then takes a shower, hoping to wash the stink of alcohol and guilt away. He succeeds on one count, at least, and drinks a whole pot of coffee to himself at the kitchen table before his stomach starts to growl with hunger. There’s fuck all to eat in the cupboards, so he layers up and trudges down to the store beneath their apartment. They don’t sell much he can eat, but there’s normally fresh fruit up near the counter, at least, and maybe he’ll feel better once he’s out in the fresh air.

Spoiler: he doesn't. He does get food, but it doesn't help him stop feeling sick, either, and all that coffee with no painkillers for the hangover has given him a pounding headache to boot. Fuck this.

Frank walks without a destination in mind until his fingers turn numb inside his gloves. The sun is bright and mocking which only makes his headache worse, and apparently it rained this morning because the ground is wet and slippery beneath his feet. Frank’s sneakers are too old to have any kind of traction left, and he catches himself on a few lampposts before he gives up and turns back towards home. He’d been hoping the walk would give him time to think about what the fuck he’s going to say to Grant later, but he’s been out for - he checks his watch - just over two hours and has fucking _nothing_. He gets out his phone and pulls off one glove with his teeth, then fumbles it unlocked with freezing fingers so he can call Gerard. He doesn't know what he’s going to say to him, either, but he’s gotta say _something_.

In the end, it doesn't matter, because his call goes straight to voicemail, as do the next three, and his texts, once he’s found his way back home and his fingers are warm enough to send them, get ignored too. Frank knows he deserves it, but fuck, he doesn't _want_ it.

He sleeps the rest of his hangover away in Dewees’s bed, because the sucker apparently had to get up earlier in the afternoon for a shift and has left it blissfully empty.

Grant doesn't end up calling that night. Frank isn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. He does text to explain the afternoon meeting ran late and he was being taken out for dinner by a couple of the execs, so Frank wishes him a good time, makes a cup of cocoa like it’s fucking Christmas or something and turns his phone off. He dozes on the couch until Dewees gets in at 3am, then the two of them watch a shitty horror movie and eat the pizza he’d brought home. It’s nice, and Frank doesn't want to turn his phone on to check for messages from Gerard more than five or six times, so he counts it as a win. He ends up staying up long after Dewees has called it a night, watching the kind of horror movies that only run in the early hours of the morning, then crashing out when Hambone gets up for work and sleeping most of the day away again even though he knows he’s going to feel like absolute shit when he has to get up early for work tomorrow.

Grant _does_ call him that night, and Frank still has no fucking idea what to say, but he knows he has to tell him because he can’t lie about it. He wants to, fuck, he wants to so fucking bad because he _loves_ Grant and he loves what they have and fuck, as soon as Frank tells him what he’s done it’s going to fucking ruin that, but he can’t lie to him and, apparently, Frank’s mouth decides it’s not even going to wait for a pause in the conversation. Grant’s in the middle of telling Frank about a new arc the execs want Grant to work on when Frank blurts out;

“I kissed Gerard.”

He snaps his mouth closed as soon as his brain comes back online, races to catch up, then kicks him back into gear again.

“I’m so sorry, Grant,” Frank rushes to apologise. “That’s not just, I mean, he also, he- I- he gave me a- shit, _shit_ , it should never have happened, I’m so fucking sorry, I swear, it’ll never happen again, I’m _sorry_...” Frank feels himself choking up and he pauses to breathe, giving Grant a chance to speak.

 _“Frank,_ ” his voice comes over the line, as warm and comforting as always. _”Are you okay?”_

Frank shakes his head, realizes Grant can’t see him, and sniffs. “No.”

There’s a long pause.

 _”Why?”_ Grant doesn't sound half as mad as Frank feels like he should.

“Because… because I _cheated_ on you…” He chokes out, breath still shuddering like he’s about to have a panic attack now that he’s said the words out loud. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t- I wasn’t-”

 _”Calm down, sweetheart,”_ Grant murmurs in his ear, smooth as chocolate. _”Gerard is stunning, and sharp as a fucking whip. Why on earth did you think I’d be mad at you for kissing a boy as fascinating as him?”_

Frank is fucking floored. He’d been through this conversation a million fucking times in his head and that is _not_ any of the reactions he’d expected.

“But…” he stumbles, off-kilter and confused. “But I- you-”

Grant, apparently, takes pity on him, because he interrupts before Frank loses his mind.

 _”Frank, listen to yourself,”_ he says gently as Frank tries to get his breath. _”I can hear how messed up you are over this. That, more than anything, shows me how much you care about me. That, and the fact that you told me the truth, even though you thought I’d be angry with you. You risked everything to tell me the truth as soon as we spoke. You’re a good man, Frank, and I love you.”_

Frank sniffs again and swallows. It hurts. “I love you too,” he forces out around the lump in his throat. “I really do, I swear-”

 _”I know, Frank,”_ Grant interrupts again, calm and soothing, before Frank can get carried away with more apologies. _”I promise, it’s okay. I’ve seen you both together, I’d have to be a blind man to not realise you were attracted to each other.”_

Frank’s brain grinds to a halt. _Wait, what?_

“Wait, what?” He says out loud, and Grant chuckles in his ear. It makes Frank’s skin tingle.

 _”Did you realise you liked him before or after we started dating?”_ He asks, and he sounds nothing but idly curious. Frank feels himself starting to chill out in the face of Grant’s unflappable calm. His pulse is still racing but he doesn't feel quite so much like he’s going to burst into tears or hyperventilate or both at the same time. He’s confused as fuck though, because _he_ hadn’t realised he’d had any sort of attraction to Gerard until a few days ago, so how could Grant have…?

“I…” Frank starts slowly, not really sure where the sentence is going. “Uh…”

Grant’s soft laugh comes across the line again. _”You didn’t, did you?”_ He asks. _”All this time, and you never once thought he might be interested?”_

Frank huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “No… I mean, I… I knew I was his type… and the day we met I kinda thought he was cute, I guess, and-” Realisation settles over him like a blanket as he starts to think back through everything, all the little moments he and Gerard have shared, all the smiles and the easy touches and looks that have maybe lingered a little longer than they should.... “Oh, shit…”

Grant’s laugh is loud and uninhibited now. Frank can almost, almost see him then, and he misses him so bad it hurts. It takes him a minute to calm down, and when he does, there’s a heavy pause on the other end of the line. It’s long enough that Frank starts to fidget, pushing his finger through a new hole in his jeans and making it bigger. He can hear Grant’s breathing, steady and even, but Frank has no idea what to fill the silence with.

Finally, Grant does it for him.

 _”So,”_ He asks, his voice low and a little breathless from laughing. _”How did you like it?”_

“Uh…” He hesitates, unsure of where this is going. What was Grant expecting him to say, exactly? Yes, he’d enjoyed kissing someone who wasn’t his boyfriend, his lover? No, he’d felt sick with guilt the whole time, in which case why the fuck would he have gotten so far as to have Gerard’s hands down his pants?

“Like what?” He asks eventually, even though he knows what Grant is asking him.

 _”Frank,”_ Grant says warningly, like he knows Frank is being deliberately obtuse. _”He sucked you off, right? Did you enjoy it?”_

Frank stutters stupidly, thrown for another loop. Grant gives him a moment to compose himself then, when he doesn't seem to be able to, he keeps on talking.

 _”I can imagine he’s pretty talented with his mouth,”_ Grant says, and Frank chokes on his next breath. _”I’ve seen him, always chewing on his fingers, sucking them and playing with his mouth when he’s not smoking a cigarette…”_ He hums thoughtfully. _”He’s pretty awkward too, so I’d imagine he doesn't get laid regularly… so he’s probably eager too… How am I doing so far, Frank?”_

Frank startles a little at being addressed suddenly. He’d gotten distracted by Grant’s voice, Grant’s voice talking about sex, but now the attention was back on him and he wasn’t sure what to say.

“Uh, yeah, pretty- pretty close,” Frank says quickly, blushing at Grant’s forwardness, and Grant hums over the line.

_”I bet you two looked a real fuckin’ picture… Where did you do it?”_

Frank swallows, Grant’s deep voice doing things to his body now that it was becoming obvious that Grant really, really didn’t mind and his relationship wasn’t ruined.

“On the couch,” Frank tells him softly. “In my apartment.”

 _”With him on his knees?”_ Grant asks, and Frank ‘mhmm’s quietly in response. _”Oh, even better…“_ There’s the kind of rustle that Frank recognises from past relationships, the sound of fabric shifting and being pushed out of the way.

 _Oh,_ Frank thinks. _We’re doing this, then?_

 _“Tell me how his mouth felt, Frank…”_ Grant asks him, his voice sinking lower. Frank is suddenly terribly glad Dewees and Hambone are both out for the night. _”Tell me what you did…”_

He’s no stranger to phone sex, and even if it’s the first time he’s done it with Grant, the other man’s voice does things to Frank at the most innocent of times, let alone tinged with desire like it is right now, asking him to talk about how good Gerard fucking sucked him off… He relaxes into the couch and drops a hand between his legs.

“He was good…” He said, massaging his erection to full hardness and growing in confidence when Grant made a soft, pleased sound. “Really fuckin’ good, Grant. We were super fuckin’ drunk but it was really good… Felt like he was tryin’ to suck my fucking brain out through my dick…” He groaned softly at the memory of Gerard on his knees, giving it his all. “He was so sloppy about it which, it sounds fuckin’ nasty, but... _fuck_...”

Grant moans in his ear and Frank’s pulse skyrockets. He stuffs his cell between his ear and his shoulder as he shoves his sweats down and curls his fist around his cock.

 _”I bet he looked gorgeous down there on his knees,”_ Grant said, already breathing heavily. _”Eyes closed, red cheeks, all that wild, dark hair in his face…”_

“Uh huh,” Frank agreed, closing his own eyes and stroking himself firmly. “I got my hands in it and he let me pull it… Fuck, he moaned like _he_ was the one getting sucked off…”

Frank can see Grant in his head, sprawled out on his bed - king size, naturally - with his suit pants open and his cock, full and heavy and leaking against his belly. It makes Frank’s mouth water and he tells Grant as much out loud.

Grant moans again, long and low. _”Fuck, I can’t wait to get back to you,”_ he says.

“Me either,” Frank hurries to respond. “Missed you… been thinking about… about…”

_”About what, love?”_

Frank’s breath stutters as he twists his fist around the head of his dick on the upstroke. “About your apartment… about those windows… about you fucking me up against them…”

The sound Grant makes is like nothing Frank has ever heard, totally lust-drunk and out of this world.

 _”Oh, Frank, you’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”_ He says, and Frank chuckles breathlessly.

“For you, maybe…”

 _”Mmm, or for Gerard, I’m sure,”_ Grant hums. _“I bet he’s got all kinds of wild fantasies in that pretty little head of his… He’d love to be tied up, I think...”_ Frank chokes on a moan as he imagines Gerard spread out across Grant’s dark sheets, all perfect, pale skin and black hair, with his arms tied above his head, muscles straining against the knots tethering him to the headboard.

Grant carried on talking, either oblivious to Frank’s imagination, or maybe counting on it.

_”Can’t you just see him all laid out for us, delicious as a fuckin’ feast, writhing and desperate… I bet he’d beg so beautifully, don’t you?”_

Frank nodded stupidly, then rushed to agree, stroking himself faster. “Yeah… You should have heard him moan when he was sucking me off… So fuckin’ hot, Grant, and the way he looked at me after, like I’d just given him the best fucking treat in the world…”

Grant hummed and Frank heard it shake a little, like Grant was just as close as he was right now. Frank’s cock throbbed in his fist and leaked heavily, making everything nice and slick. The next time Frank stroked and twisted, he groaned loudly and his toes curled against the thin carpet.

 _”I fuckin’ knew it, I knew he’d love getting something in his mouth…”_ Grant said, broken and gasping like he was barely hanging on by a thread. Fuck, Frank’s always loved Grant’s voice, his accent, but holy fuck, his voice talking about _Gerard_ is something else entirely. _”He swallowed, didn’t he, when you came? Oh fuck, tell me, Frank, tell me he fuckin’ swallowed…”_

“He did,” Frank said quickly, his thighs tensing as he felt Grant’s orgasm spurring on his own. “He did, fuck, Grant, I tried to tell him but I couldn’t, and- and it was like he tried to- to fuckin’ _choke_ himself on my dick he was so desperate for it…” He hears Grant curse under his breath then his heavy, shuddering breaths stop completely for a long moment and Frank knows Grant is coming, knows that gorgeous, thick cock is throbbing in his fist and striping his belly with hot ejaculate. It’s that image, along with a final flash of Gerard’s blissed-out expression that does it, and Frank’s barely able to gasp out a soft, “Fuck, Grant, I’m coming-” before his orgasm pushes him over the edge with a cry.

They come down together, panting in each others’ ears, and, predictably, Frank giggles. Always after sex, he can’t help it, he’s running high on endorphins and giggling just seems to _happen_ every single time. Grant chuckles fondly.

_”Well, that was fun.”_

Frank hums in agreement. “Mhmm. We should totally do that again before you get back.”

Grant laughs and Frank feels his face warm at the sound. God, he loves this man.

 _”Oh really?”_ Grant asks. _”Why, do you have more stories for me? Did you two get up to something else?”_

“No. No, just- he just sucked me off.”

 _“Mmm…”_ Grant hums softly. _”I’m not sure whether I’m disappointed about that or excited that I get to be there to watch next time...”_

 _Next time?_ Frank thinks.

“What- you- next time?” He stutters eloquently.

 _”Well, you seem pretty taken with him, love,”_ Grant’s voice says, as cool and calm as ever while Frank feels like his brain is on steroids. _”I assumed, since you two spend so much time together, that there would be a next time. Probably quite a few, in fact.”_

Frank has no fucking clue what to say to that, and Grant must be able to tell from his silence.

 _”Do you want there to be a next time?”_ He asks Frank carefully.

Does he want there to be a next time? Frank hadn’t even entertained the possibility of a next time. His brain is telling him no, of course he doesn’t want a fucking next time. Grant might be cool with what happened, but that just isn’t a question you answer yes to after you admit to cheating on your significant other. But they’d just had fucking phone sex, talking about the guy Frank had had sex with… And Grant had been _into_ it. Fantasies though, they were different to reality, and Frank knows how much fun it is to talk about something kinky, to imagine it, without ever wanting to actually do it for himself. But Frank also can’t stop thinking about Gerard’s mouth, hot and eager on his, and the easy way he’d slid down to his knees, the look on his face as Frank came in his mouth... But, but, there are so many buts that Frank’s brain can’t keep up.

In the end, his heart answers for him.

“Yes.”

He barely has time to freak out and clap a hand over his mouth though, because Grant keeps talking like the answer doesn't surprise him like it surprises Frank.

 _“It’s more than just sex, isn’t it, love?”_ Grant asks him gently, as if trying not to spook him. That’s probably a fucking good idea, Frank realises, because he’s feeling pretty fucking spook-able right now. _“It’s okay, Frank. I realise this talk would be easier in person, but I don’t want you to go away feeling guilty or confused.”_

Frank’s definitely fucking confused.

 _”You must have realised by now that I’m not exactly a ‘normal’ guy,”_ Grant tells him, and Frank can hear the smile in his voice. It warms him, and he chuckles.

“You could say that.”

Grant laughs. _”In any case, what makes you think I’d limit myself to a ‘normal’ relationship? Frank, human beings have such an amazing capacity for love and devotion. Why we limit ourselves to a single partner when we all know it’s possible to fall in love with more than one person is beyond me!”_

Frank is equal parts totally blown away, and completely unsurprised by this revelation. He wipes his hand on his shirt, feeling too lazy to move, and fixes his clothes as he settles in for one of Grant’s long-winded, but normally factually accurate, opinions.

 _”We let ourselves have more than one friend, more than one child,”_ Grant continues. _”So why does Western culture limit us to only one partner at a time? We marry and have affairs, we get divorced and meet new people… It’s perfectly acceptable for a widow to remarry too, after a relationship that didn’t end in someone falling out of love. We _know_ we’re capable of loving more than one person, and Christ knows there’s more than enough fucking hate in the world, so why on earth don’t we allow ourselves the freedom to fall in love?”_

It makes sense. Of course it makes sense. Grant _always_ makes fucking sense.

“You’re right,” Frank says simply, smiling as he pictures Grant’s face, animated and bright as he talks. He thinks sometimes that Grant would make a fantastic teacher or professor, because he has this way of engaging with people and laying everything out in a way that even the slowest brain is able to understand. Frank’s glad he isn’t, though, or they might never have met.

 _“I know.”_ Grant replies, and Frank giggles. He feels like a huge weight has been lifted off his shoulders, at least, until he thinks about Gerard, and how the other man has been avoiding him.

_”So, I take it from your silence that you’d like to have a next time with Gerard… and maybe we could see if he’s one of those other people you could fall in love with? He’s pretty special; I can see why you’re so drawn to him.”_

Frank’s quiet for a moment longer, but Grant really does seem genuine. He’s not the type of guy to trick Frank into saying the wrong thing, and he’s certainly not going to burst out ‘Ha!’ and suddenly break up with him, that just isn’t Grant’s style.

“I… I think so, yeah…” Frank says slowly, his mind - and heart - still trying to come to terms with this crazy, incredible offer his just been handed. “As long as it’s with you…”

Grant chuckles warmly. _”I wouldn’t have it any other way, love.”_

\---

Thanks to totally screwing up his sleep schedule over the past few days, Frank gets to work the next morning groggy as fuck and without coffee. Frank’s almost all the way up the steps before something clicks as not quite right, and he comes up short when he sees the note on the door.

 _Closed for now. Sorry._ Says the note.

“What the fuck?” Says Frank.

The note, obviously, doesn't offer him anything else, and now Frank is starting to feel concerned. Gerard ignoring him is one thing, but Gerard ignoring the _store_ is virtually unheard of. Gerard _loves_ his store,

After the mad revelation yesterday afternoon that Grant might be interested in Gerard too, and was interested in pursuing something with Frank, he’d been forced to admit that actually, Gerard wasn’t talking to him right now, because he’d freaked out after he’d let Gerard suck him off. Grant had, obviously, scolded him for such bad form, and Frank had flushed and scrubbed at the back of his head with his hand. _Even if you aren’t interested in someone,_ Grant told him, _you should still have the decency to hold them afterwards and give them somewhere to sleep until morning, when you can explain, kindly and in the light of day, that you weren’t interested in a relationship_. Frank, suitably cowed, had promised to talk to Gerard at work in the morning.

Except Gerard isn’t _here_.

Frank calls him, then, when the first call goes unanswered, he calls him again. Then, he calls Grant.

“He’s not here,” he says as soon as the other man picks up. “He’s been here, because there’s a sign on the door, but it’s all locked up and all the lights are off.”

_”I assume, from you calling me, that Gerard still isn’t picking up his phone?”_

Frank answered in the negative, and Grant sighed.

 _”Well, I’m sure he’s okay,”_ he said, clearly trying to reassure Frank. _”But he’s an anxious little thing, our Gerard. You know how crippling anxiety can be. If he’s closed up the shop he must be suffering badly.”_

Frank knows, fuck, Frank _knows_ how Gerard’s anxiety can fucking spiral out of control, he should have fucking realised what this would have done to him…

“I’m gonna go to his place,” he tells Grant quickly, hopping down the steps and starting down the street towards the station. “This is my stupid fault, and I know he probably doesn’t even wanna see me right now but-”

 _”Of course he wants to see you,”_ Grant insists, talking over Frank’s rambling. “I imagine he feels like you don’t want him, like he fucked everything up by letting things go so far, like he’s completely the one at fault here. He probably can’t bear to face you after what happened and be told you’re not interested.”

Frank feels that like a blow to the chest, because Grant had only met Gerard a couple times now but fuck, he really seems to _get_ him, and how the fuck hadn’t Frank _realised_ any of this by himself?! It all makes so much sense, it’s all so perfectly _Gerard_ to take on all the blame like that and go full hermit, totally and utterly convinced he’s the problem, and Frank had been fucking blind to it.

\---

By the time he gets to Gerard’s place, Frank is out of breath and red in the face from the cold and jogging most all the way from the terminal. He leans on the bell and then, when Gerard doesn't buzz him in, he starts trying the other apartments instead. Finally someone must get tired of him and the door buzzes open. Frank quickly pushes his way inside before they change the mind, calling out a, “Thank you!” into the speaker.

He knocks on Gerard’s door, wondering if the other man is going to let him in or continue ignoring him.

“Gerard, it’s me,” he calls through the wood. Maybe giving him that heads up is a mistake, but Frank’s banking on Grant being right about Gerard _wanting_ to see him, really. “I’m gonna sit out here in your hall until you let me in. You know how hungry I get. It’ll totally be your fault if I pass out!”

He’s kidding about the passing out thing, of course, but as he’d hoped it does the trick, and the lock clicks.

The door opens a crack, and Gerard’s eyes peek out. Even through the tiny crack, Frank can see they’re red and swollen, like he’s been crying. _Fuck_. Grant was right. Grant’s always fucking right.

Frank shoots him a small smile and asks hesitantly, "Can I come in?"

Gerard hesitates, but he steps aside, letting Frank slip past him and into the place that had become more like home to Frank than the one he lived in. God, how had he not noticed how much Gerard meant to him?

Gerard's apartment was never the tidiest of places, but it's obvious the moment Frank steps inside that Gerard has let it fall into complete disarray. It's a mess, clothes strewn across the floor and dishes piled high in the sink, and Gerard himself isn't much better. He doesn't look like he's showered since he left Frank's apartment and he's still in his pyjamas and a big, fluffy robe, which wouldn't normally be strange for ten AM, but there were coffee stains down the front and a smear of something at the side of Gerard's mouth. His hair is greasier than usual, almost wet-looking, and it's suddenly painfully obvious to Frank that Gerard has given up.

Guilt sinks like a stone in his stomach and he closes the door behind himself.

"Gee..." Frank starts softly, his voice apologetic, but Gerard quickly shakes his head before he can say anything else.

"I'm sorry, Frankie," he says. "I'm so fucking sorry, this is all my stupid fucking fault, I never should have said anything and now-"

"Gee-" Frank tries.

"-I've screwed everything up, ruined it all and you probably hate me now-"

"Gee, stop it." Frank says sharply, hoping a slightly harsher tone would cut through Gerard's mad rambling. It works, and Gerard pauses. Frank hasn't exactly planned what he wants to say though, so when Gerard looks at him out of puffy, sore-looking eyes, Frank has nothing to say. It's probably a bad idea, but he steps closer and touches Gerard on the cheek, then leans in and kisses him on the mouth.

Frank feels Gerard melt for a split second before he stiffens and tears himself away, pressing a hand to his mouth.

"What are you doing?!" He bursts out, eyes shining as tears gather there. "Frank, you can't- you can't do this, it's not- not fair-" he sobs the last word and steps back automatically when Frank steps closer. Frank tries again, and again Gerard counters him.

"I can't..." Gerard says, his voice shaking as he reaches out as if to touch Frank. "I want to, fuck I want to, but I can't... You and Grant, you're in love, I can't, I won't get in the way of that and I... I can't be your secret, either... I'm sorry..."

Frank stares at Gerard, guilt twisting inside him.

"No..." He says softly. "No, Gee, that's not what I... what I meant... I'm sorry..." Fuck, of course that's what Gerard would think, why wouldn't he? "You didn't have to run off the other day, you know..."

Gerard wipes his eyes and wraps his robe tighter around himself like a protective layer of armor.

"I'm sorry," he says, looking down and rubbing his arms like he doesn't know what to do with his hands. "I screwed everything up, I should never have said anything-"

"It's not your fault," Frank interrupts him. He can't let Gerard keep going like this, taking on all the blame like this and convincing himself it was all down to him. "I kissed you... and I let you... you know..."

Gerard flushes deeply and can't meet Frank's eyes. He sniffs and turns towards the kitchen, about to put on a pot of coffee before he seems to realise he has no clean mugs.

"How... How are you and, and Grant?" He asks, his voice tight and uncharacteristically polite in a way Frank has never heard before, not even back during his half-assed job interview. It makes him feel uncomfortable and off-kilter. In Gerard's mind, Frank supposes, there are two equally bad options Frank could answer with: one, he's told Grant about what happened and Grant has broken things off, or two, Frank hasn't told him and is _lying_ to his boyfriend.

"We're okay..." Frank says softly, watching as Gerard gives up on the coffee and goes to the fridge instead. He takes the soda Gerard offers him and perches on one of the little dining chairs. It's awkward and weird and Frank doesn't fucking like it. "I told him about... everything. He's pretty fuckin' amazing..."

Gerard nods, his shoulders tight, and Frank realises that probably wasn't the best thing to say. God, he's just making this worse, isn't he...

"I'm sorry for running away..." Gerard says, twisting his fingers together like he'd really like to be smoking a cigarette right about now. "And for all this..." He gestures around them but won't look at Frank. "It's just... My head, it's so... Ugh..." Gerard makes a little spastic motion with his hands, and Frank gets it. He remembers Gerard telling him about his anxiety once, and how 'all your worst nightmares become the truth in your own head'. Frank can relate to that, and he reaches across the space to cover Gerard's shaking hands with one of his.

Gerard looks up at him then, finally, and Frank smiles and comes to sit next to him on the couch, shoving a blanket and an oversized sweater and two different television remotes and a half empty bowl of chips out of the way. He's setting his soda down on the table when he feels his phone vibrate in his back pocket, and he slips it out to find a message from Grant.

 _Invite him for dinner next weekend,_ it says. _We can do it at my place. I'll cook._

"Grant says you should to come to dinner at the weekend, after he gets back," Frank tells him.

Gerard balks, obviously thinking Grant wants him over to dispose of his body Hannibal-style.

"Dude, he's not gonna serve you up on a platter," he grins, trying to keep things light and help Gerard escape from his own head. "He's a really great cook."

Gerard still doesn't look convinced, so Frank takes his hand again, his smile softening.

"I'd really like it if you came."

Frank knows it’s an underhanded move, but Gerard wilts under the force of Frank's wide, earnest eyes, and nods.

"Okay," he whispers.

Frank links their fingers together and squeezes, smiling at Gerard brightly, and when Gerard smiles hesitantly back, Frank feels like they're on their way to being okay again.

Frank tells Grant the good news, then spends the afternoon with Gerard, watching bad TV and picking out comic books and asking Gerard to tell him about them as they work together on cleaning up his apartment. Really it's mostly Frank doing the cleaning, because Gerard has this tendency to get really involved in whatever it is he's trying to explain, and forgets he's supposed to be, y'know, bagging up trash or drying the dishes. Frank doesn't mind though, because he can see Gerard coming back to himself a little more with every question Frank asks, his friend returning right before his eyes, and he's happy to clean in exchange for that. By the time they're done, Gerard even agrees to walk with Frank to the little diner two blocks down where they'd started going for breakfast whenever Frank stayed over and neither of them had to work the next day.

Frank sleeps on the couch that night, and the next day they open up the shop together as normal, Gerard unlocking while Frank goes for coffee and breakfast. He brings back a sweet pastry for Gerard and a banana and an orange for himself, along with two of the biggest flat whites the place does, double shots of espresso in each. Gerard makes his usual grabby hands when Frank returns, and Frank hands over the drink with a giggle, their fingers brushing naturally. It feels good to be like this again, even if Gerard is a little quieter than usual. Frank gets that he's going to need some time to fully understand that neither of them has done anything wrong and they aren't in trouble, haven't upset anyone, and aren't going to get beaten to within an inch of their lives by a horde of angry Scotsmen.

For the rest of the week Frank keeps him busy talking about the roleplay game they still haven’t started yet, which segues into other universes Gerard has ideas for, like a robotic _Spiderman_ that Frank thinks sounds fucking awesome. Gerard’s brain is fascinating - he totally gets why Grant had used that word now - and, as always, Frank feels himself being drawn in just listening to Gerard talk and watching him gesture wildly with his hands. It’s comfortable and soothing, and Frank is happy to do more of the shelving than usual just as long as Gerard keeps talking.

By the time Grant returns, Gerard isn’t _completely_ back to normal, but Frank hadn’t expected him to be. Some of the progress they’d made during the week is obviously undone when he remembers it’s time to face the music, but Frank had warned him the day before that they’d be going straight from work so he should bring a change of clothes. Gerard had turned up to work that morning mostly awake and freshly showered with a rucksack on his back, and Frank feels something lift inside, because Gerard might be scared but he’s still coming, and Frank is fucking _proud_ of him. He grins brightly and wants to kiss him, but he doesn't. They haven’t even broached the subject all week, and even though Frank cleared it with Grant, he feels like that’s something they should all talk about together, if Gerard is even fucking interested. Frank feels like he would be. He knows Gerard still has a huge, schoolboy crush on Grant, and he’s clearly more than interested in Frank, but he just wants to get this dinner out of the way so that Gerard can fully understand that nobody is upset with him and everything’s going to be okay. After that, then they can start hanging out together more, all three of them, and maybe take it from there.

After work, Frank changes in the breakroom while Gerard locks up, then they switch and Gerard changes while Frank calls a cab. Frank’s in his usual black slacks and shoes - he owns _shoes_ now that he doesn't even wear to work! - with a dark red shirt. He’s slicked his hair back slightly with water in the bathroom, just to calm the flyaway look he always has after a day at work, and he’s just layering up his sweater and jacket and coat and scarf when Gerard comes out.

Art by aethel

Frank tries not to stare, he really does, but Gerard looks down and he knows he’s failed. The other man is in a clean, fitted pair of black pants and a white shirt, which he’s rolled up to the elbows. There’s a black-and-white tie over that, and a tight black vest over that which dips at the curve of his waist and flares at the bottom. His hair is clean and looks so, so soft. It’s messy, of course, but artfully so, like Gerard has just brushed it and tousled it up rather than spent the past three days running his hands through it. Frank’s heart skips and he meets Gerard’s eyes, his mouth slightly parted. Gerard flushes deeply and lifts a hand to his hair, but he pauses before he touches it then lowers it again, fingers curled into a light fist. Frank swallows and looks away, throwing his coat and scarf on, and Gerard shivers to life and slips his coat on, too.

The cab ride to Grant’s is quiet, but not uncomfortably so. The two of them sit in the back, and Frank has to stifle the urge to hold Gerard’s hand as the driver makes the usual small talk. By the time they pull up outside Grant’s building, Frank’s heart is pounding with excitement. He hasn’t seen Grant in fucking _forever_ and he feels like an over-exuberant puppy, tail wagging like mad. He pays the cab driver, waving off Gerard’s opened wallet, and bounces up the steps and inside, the other man following behind a little more slowly. The guy on reception tonight recognises Frank, and tips his head in greeting to Frank’s happy, “Good evening!”, called across the open lobby. Gerard gives the place wide eyes, and follows Frank to the elevators.

Frank grins at Gerard as they ride up.

“This is _nice_.” Gerard says, looking equal parts awed and intimidated.

Frank just keeps grinning and nods. “I know, right? Wait until you see his apartment!” He bounces a little on the balls of his feet, and when the doors ping open, he takes Gerard by the wrist and pulls him down the corridor. Grant opens the door with the easy smile Frank has missed so much, and opens his arms, and Frank launches himself into them. Grant stumbles with a laugh but catches himself on the doorframe, waving Gerard inside with his free hand before he closes the door, wraps his arms around Frank and kisses him deeply, right there in front of Gerard.

Frank wraps himself around Grant like an octopus and kisses him back. His head is freshly shaved and smooth, and Frank strokes over it with his fingertips to hear the small sound Grant makes into his mouth at the sensation.

“Hello, love,” Grant murmurs when they break apart. Gerard is trying to look anywhere else, blushing furiously, and Frank giggles a little and pecks Grant on the mouth again.

“Hi.”

Frank lets Grant get back to dinner, watching him go and appreciating the way his pants hug the curve of his ass. His shirt, like Gerard’s, is rolled up to his elbows, and Frank enjoys the way his forearms look, strong and smooth as he works. When Gerard is done gawking at the view outside, and Grant’s extensive collection of books and comics, he and Frank settle down on the rug in front of the mantlepiece. Gerard finds _Tales from the Leather Nun_ about three times faster than Frank had, and instead of lifting his eyebrows at the cover and putting it back, as Frank had, Gerard’s eyes light up.

“Oh _man_ , I’ve always wanted to read this!” He says, voice bright with excitement. “Apparently it’s fucking crazy, but it's fuckin' hard to find in print and I’ve never been able to afford a copy myself…”

Grant glances over and grins at him. “Frank over there was too soft for that one.” Frank flushes, but he’s smiling and unashamed. “Take it with you, if you’d like.”

Gerard’s eyes go wide and he kneels up to better see Grant over the counter. “But… It’s so expensive… Really?”

Grant nods. “Of course. I've read it several times now, I'd rather it go to a good home than sit here gathering dust." He waves a hand towards the shelves, much as he had with Frank before. Grant is so fucking generous it makes Frank’s heart ache. "Take anything you’d like.”

Gerard's jaw goes slack.

"Don't try and refuse him," Frank teases. "Or he'll just sneak it into your bag when you're not looking. He wants to make you happy."

“But… Frank, this is worth, like, three hundred fuckin’ dollars or something…” Gerard tells him with big, earnest eyes. Frank balks a little at the price of a single fucking comic book, but he thinks he hides it well.

"All the more reason to trust him. He knows what it's worth and he wants you to have it." Gerard still doesn't look convinced, so Frank touches his hand and tries a different angle. "How would you feel if you gave me this really cool, amazing gift that you really wanted me to have, and I turned it away?"

Gerard looks away, guilty.

"Pretty fuckin' shitty, exactly." Frank continues. "So just take the gift, okay? It'll make him happy."

Gerard nods slowly, still looking between Grant and Frank and the shelves of books in disbelief. He clutches the comic book to his chest almost protectively, then releases it quickly and looks down to check for damage.

Frank giggles, watching Gerard fondly, and his eyes stray over Gerard's shoulder to Grant. Grant's watching Gerard too, but as if he feels Frank looking at him, his gaze slides over to meet Frank's, and he smiles warmly. Frank inhales and his eyelids flutter; the spices and herbs Grant is cooking with smell divine and his stomach growls softly as it decides it's really to eat now, please and thank you.

Dinner, when it comes, is as wonderful as Frank has come to expect from Grant’s cooking, rich and flavourful and, when he looks across the table at Gerard, they share a look that tells him Gerard is equally impressed. The two of them together can barely make spaghetti, so for Gerard, who lives alone and doesn't really talk to his parents and doesn't rely heavily on his mother's tendency to cook five times more food than she needs, this must be even more of a treat than it is for Frank.

Frank hasn't really been paying attention to Grant's hands, that's to say, he's so used to Grant being tactile with him and touching him on the shoulder or the hand as they talk that he doesn't notice it as anything out of the ordinary when Grant does it to Gerard. Grant pours water and wine for them both, leans in close to Gerard as he speaks, and Frank doesn't even really notice the light flush on Gerard's cheeks during dinner. It's down to the mood lighting Grant has picked, he assumes, and it takes until Gerard clears his throat and Grant reaches for him, laying his long fingers on Gerard's wrist, right at the pulse point, for Frank to finally twig onto what's happening here. Grant has spent the whole evening effortlessly charming Gerard, because, he realises, this is a _date_.

 _The Talk_ that Frank had assumed they’d have with Gerard doesn’t ever seem to happen as far as he can tell, but Gerard must see where this is going, because when Grant smiles at him the way he smiles at Frank when he’s feeling especially affectionate, and leans in and kisses him softly on the mouth, Gerard doesn’t completely freak out. His eyes go wide and he melts into it for the smallest moment - if Frank had blinked as he watched, he’d have missed it - but then Gerard seems to remember what’s going on here and his eyes widen even as Grant’s lips hover against his own. He sends Frank a slightly panicked glance, but Frank just smiles and reaches around the table to take his hand, and Gerard relaxes into Grant’s embrace.

Grant slides one hand up into Gerard’s hair and the other around his waist as they kiss chastely. It’s awkward, thanks to the dining chairs they’re sitting on and table in the way, so Grant leans back and brings his hands around to Gerard’s shoulders, then down his arms until they come to rest on his wrists. He stands and gently urges Gerard to his feet, so Frank takes his lead and rounds the table to join them.

“Would you like to come to bed with us, Gerard?” Grant asks, his voice low and so quiet Frank can barely hear him. “Because Frank and I would like that very, very much.”

Gerard looks between them, a little dazed, then nods.

“Ye-” His voice comes out all scratchy, so he clears his throat. “Yeah. Yes.”

Frank grins wide and bright and takes Gerard’s face in his hands, kissing him firmly. Gerard kisses back just as he remembers. Well, maybe not _exactly_ as he remembers, because they aren’t both blind drunk this time, but his lips feel just as soft and his tongue, when Frank taps at his mouth and gets let inside, tastes just as fucking good. He makes a soft sound into the kiss and Gerard mirrors it, leaning more heavily towards Frank now, and Frank feels Grant’s hands settle on his own shoulders.

They fall into Grant’s huge bed together, Frank giggling at Gerard’s eager fingers on his shirt buttons. Apparently, now he’s been given the go-ahead, he’s just as eager for this as they are. After some adorable fumbling, Gerard gets them all undone and shoves the offending garment off Frank’s shoulders. It bunches around his elbows and they both fight to get it off, tossing it to one side as Frank gives Gerard’s the same treatment. He glances up as the bed dips next to them and his eyes meet Grant’s bare chest. Licking his lips, Frank reaches for him, wriggling himself upright to get his mouth on one of Grant’s nipples. The older man hisses softly at the sensation but Gerard hesitates.

“You can touch him…” Frank encourages with his mouth against Grant’s broad chest. His eyes flick over to the other nipple, and Gerard follows the motion then leans in to copy. Grant’s jaw fell slack as the two of them mouthed at his nipples, Gerard nibbling gently while Frank lapped like a kitten.

“Ohh, you boys,” Grant says softly, voice tinged with pleasure. “You are going to be the death of me…”

Frank glances up with a cheeky little grin and Grant rolls his eyes fondly. He steps back and Gerard makes a sad little sound, trying to follow with his tongue. Grant catches his chin in his hand and dips to kiss him.

It’s nothing at all like the kiss they had just shared at the dinner table. Now that Grant can have what he wants, he takes it, kissing Gerard deep and dirty from the outset. Gerard groans into his mouth and opens for his tongue, submitting easily to him and visibly softening as Grant’s arms come up to hold him. Grant eases him down onto the sheets on his back, holding himself up off Gerard’s body as they make out like one of them is going to die tomorrow. Gerard is uncoordinated but enthusiastic, hanging on tight to Grant’s shoulders with his feet skidding against the sheets, and when Grant shifts and presses a thigh between his legs, Gerard whines and arches into him.

Frank moves in and Grant shifts his body like he’d been expecting it. He swoops Gerard’s hair out of the way and wriggles in to get his mouth on that pretty neck, kissing and mouthing at it. Gerard whines again and tips his head back to give Frank better access. On a hunch, Frank sinks his teeth into the soft flesh and Gerard keens high in his throat. Grant lets Frank clamber over Gerard, replacing the older man’s thigh with his own, and Gerard moans gratefully, rubbing on him like a puppy in heat. Even as he’s kissing Gerard breathless and grinding down against Gerard through their pants, Frank is hyper aware of Grant watching them, and he can feel the other man’s eyes burning into him. He feels every tiny shift of the bed as Grant moves and can anticipate the touch coming as Grant lays a hand on his back, so low down it’s practically his ass. The hand slides inside over his ass and down, down, and Frank’s legs automatically slide further apart, the hard line of Gerard’s erection nudging into the crease between his thigh and his dick. The fingers creep farther still, nudging against Frank’s balls, and he yelps into Gerard’s mouth and bucks forward against him. He gets with the program quickly though, and Grant’s thick fingers give him something to rock back against, a perfect counterpoint to Gerard’s warm thigh and hard cock.

He releases Gerard’s mouth reluctantly when the need to catch his breath is too strong to ignore, and Frank’s head spins a little as he sucks in air and mouths along Gerard’s jaw. Grant’s hand leaves and Frank misses it immediately, but it does give him a moment to get up on his knees and undo his pants, then Gerard’s. Together they get them off, yanking and pulling and giggling, and Grant takes Gerard’s hand as soon as he’s naked and guides him to sit up against the headboard.

“Make yourself comfortable, love,” he says, and Gerard shifts his legs wider as Grant props Frank between them, his back pressed up against Gerard’s chest and the other man’s chin resting on the top of his head. Grant tugs on Franks legs so he slides down a little further and Frank grins, looking up at Gerad.

“I can see up your nose,” he giggles, and Gerard scoffs.

“Shut up,” he mutters, but he’s smiling. Frank turns his head to press a kiss to Gerard’s chest. Gerard has the best fucking view in the house, straight down Frank’s body to where Grant is settling between his legs and taking hold of his cock and suddenly Frank’s brain catches up.

“Oh fuck,” he says, because they’ve had sex a few times since the first time, but Grant’s never sucked him off before, and Frank’s cock throbs and leaks into Grant’s hand. He stares with wide eyes as Grant takes him in and sucks him down, cursing softly and tossing his head back against Gerard’s body. It’s not his first blowjob, but fuck, it’s _so_ much better with another warm, soft body up against his back. Gerard’s ducked his head so he can suck little marks up on Frank’s neck, holding him tightly and grinding up against the small of his back almost like he doesn’t realise he’s doing it. Frank does though, fuck, Frank does, and with Grant’s mouth swallowing him down with ease, it’s fucking killing him.

“Oh…” Gerard murmurs into the spot behind Frank’s ear, “Fuck… that looks amazing... “

His voice is soft and awed, and Grant’s eyes shine with a smile he can’t quite manage right now. He slides his lips back up to Frank’s head, mouthing at it softly before he slides back down, and yeah, fuck, it looks _spectacular_.

Grant pulls off long enough to meet Gerard’s eyes and tell him, in a low voice, “Touch him,” then he takes Frank’s dick back into his mouth, sliding down until his nose brushes the wiry hair at the base. Frank curses and digs his fingers into Gerard’s thighs, and Gerard squeaks, his hands sliding down Frank’s belly to do as he’s told. He doesn't see, sure what to do, stroking Frank’s skin for a moment with his fingertips which, really, is fucking good enough for Frank, but then they slip lower, past Grant’s mouth, and curl around Frank’s balls.

Frank whines and arches with his whole body, pressing his head back into Gerard’s chest.

“Oh fuck,” he gasps, writhing between them. “Stop, stop, fuck, you’re gonna make me come-”

Grant glances up but his eyes skim over Frank’s to meet Gerard’s. He quirks an eyebrow and swallows, deep-throating like a fucking champ, and Gerard, getting with the program, rolls Frank’s balls between his fingers. Frank cries out and falls to pieces between them, barely grounded by Grant’s firm hands on his thighs holding him down as he swallows everything Gerard’s clever fingers milk from Frank’s body.

While Frank is still shuddering with aftershocks, Grant moves over him to reach Gerard’s mouth, and Frank hears them kissing before he pries his eyes open to watch Grant’s tongue sliding into Gerard’s mouth. Gerard groans softly and Frank’s brain reminds him that he can probably still taste Frank’s come on Grant’s fucking _tongue_ … His dick gives a sad little twitch, like it really, really wants to get hard again at the thought, but just doesn't have it in it.

He wriggles out from between them and lets Grant take hold of Gerard properly. The older man must have gotten rid of his clothes while Frank was distracted, because he’s completely nude now, and Frank takes a moment to admire the long, smooth expanse of lightly tanned skin, all the way from head to toe. He can’t resist touching, and Grant hums into Gerard’s mouth as Frank strokes up his back. Grant’s hands fall to Gerard’s gorgeous, round ass, his large hands almost dwarfing it, and he pulls Gerard onto his side and then in close, wrapping one of Gerard’s legs around his waist as they lay, side by side and mouth to mouth.

Taking some initiative, Frank wriggles closer. Gerard must feel him coming, but he still jumps when Frank gets two hands on his ass and his tongue in between the warm, soft cheeks. He yelps, much as Frank had earlier but higher and more panicked, but Frank and Grant manage to hold him firm between them as he writhes, his body clearly unsure about where it wanted to go.

“Oh- oh fuck-” Gerard cries softly. “No-one’s ever- oh my God, Frankie, ohh, holy _shit_ -”

“Hush, love,” Grant murmurs, and Frank’s heart warms to hear him using the nickname on Gerard. “Just let Frankie take care of you.” Frank hears them begin to kiss again and Gerard relaxes into him enough for Frank’s stroking tongue to slip inside his body. Frank groans and delves deeper, then pulls back to lap over Gerard’s twitching rim.

“He tastes so good,” he tells Grant, dipping inside again and curling his tongue around the tight muscles to try and ease them open. He knows Grant hears him because the older man moans, and although it’s muffled by Gerard’s eager mouth, Frank hears Grant speak.

“Open him up nice and wide for me, love. I want to see what he feels like inside…”

Gerard moans desperately, hips kicking into action between them, and Frank slides a finger in alongside his tongue. He’s gifted a muddled curse and a shudder for his actions, and he eats Gerard out with all the desperate enthusiasm he feels until he hears the other man half-sobbing, “Please, please, fuck me, please,” over and over again above him. Frank is three-fingers deep by now and Gerard is dripping, but Grant still grabs lube, handing it for Frank to do the honours as he tears open a condom.

“Please,” Gerard is still saying, over and over, eyes squeezed shut and his cock leaking heavily against Grant’s flat stomach. Probably because Frank’s still stroking his fingertips relentlessly over Gerard’s prostate, because he makes the prettiest fucking noises and Frank’s fucking addicted. He remembers how fucking good that feels, remembers how Grant had driven him out of his mind just like this, and Gerard seems to be losing it just the same. “Please, please, fuck, oh, please...”

Frank gives him one more lingering stroke, relishing in the shudder that rolls through Gerard’s body, then pulls free and uncaps the lube, ignoring the long, low whine it pulls from Gerard. Frank slicks him up, getting him nice and wet for Grant, then clambers up the bed so that when Grant rolls Gerard over, he lands straight in Frank’s waiting arms.

Frank grins at Gerard’s frantic expression and takes his face in his hands, uncaring that he’s smearing lube and saliva into the other man’s hair as he kisses him. It’s already a lost cause anyway. Gerard’s lips are red and swollen but he opens eagerly for Franks tongue, and Frank feels the minor changes in the way Gerard kisses since he’s spent so long making out with Grant.

Frank feels it when Grant presses against Gerard’s hole, because Gerard’s whole body tenses and Grant whispers, “Just breathe…”

It makes Frank wonder how familiar with this Gerard actually is, especially after what Grant had said to him before. Gerard relaxes quickly though, and he feels the tiny little twitches and shifts of Gerard’s muscles, the hitching breaths against his mouth, as Grant breaches his body and sinks inside. They groan together, Grant low and rough and Gerard high and reedy, his eyes squeezed shut as he clutches Frank tightly, digging his fingers into his back. Frank talks to him softly, because if this is the first time Gerard’s bottomed like this then it’s the least he can do, nonsensical murmurings and reassurances that tell him to relax, to breathe, and that it’ll all feel so good, he promises, so good Gerard will lose his fucking mind. Either it’s _not_ Gerard’s first time getting fucked or it does the job, because he calms in between them and Frank hears Grant let out a soft, pleased sigh.

“That’s it,” Grant murmurs. “Good…” Fuck, Frank wishes he could see better, but he isn’t about to let go of Gerard right now.

“Oh-” Gerard gasps, his voice so soft it’s barely there. “Oh, Frankie, it’s so… so… fuck, m’so fuckin’ full-”

Frank smirks against his cheek and kisses him chastely.

“I know,” he murmurs in reply, his cock puffing slightly in interest between them. Yeah, fuck, he knew he’d have another in him. “Feels like he’s gonna split you right up your spine, doesn't it? But it’s so fuckin’ good you never want him to stop…”

Gerard nods frantically and Frank feels it in his body when Grant slowly pulls out and presses back inside. Gerard makes a soft, needy sound and Frank presses closer to hold him steady as Grant falls into a rhythm behind him, and slowly Gerard’s brow smooths out and he starts rocking back every time Grant pushes forwards, his little gasps turn into soft moans and, when Grant shifts his hips just right, they become loud cries that he muffles into Frank’s hair.

Frank holds him close and looks over his shoulder. Grant’s brow is furrowed and his eyes are closed but his jaw is slack with pleasure, and fuck, he looks fucking incredible. Frank’s belly twists with lust and he realises his cock has decided he’s back in the game, pressing insistently against Gerard’s belly. He wriggles closer, snugging his dick up in the soft crease where Gerard’s pelvis meets his thigh. It brings Gerard’s own throbbing length into contact too, and they moan in tandem, the sounds getting lost in each others’ mouths as Frank catches Gerard’s mouth up with his own and quiets him with his tongue.

It’s good, so fucking good, but Frank can hear in their voices and see in the roughness of Grant’s thrusts that the two of them are further along than he is, and unless he kicks it up a notch he’s not going to get there in time.

“Get your fingers in me,” Frank gasps against Gerard’s mouth, his leg joining the tangle of theirs. Gerard’s fingers swipe through the mess of lube between his own legs and he reaches around Frank’s body. Frank groans as the first finger sinks into him, his muscles clamping down and fluttering around it.

“Another,” he demands immediately, pushing back until Gerard sinks in to the second knuckle. “Please, come on, come on, Gee-” Frank cries out loudly as Gerard stuffs another finger in, clearly distracted and harder than Frank had been expecting, but it’s fucking perfect and exactly what he wants.

“Yeah, fuck,” he says against Gerard’s lips, smearing saliva everywhere and panting hard. “Deeper, c’mon, Gee, up a little, up, oh, _oh-_ fuuuck... yeah, _yeah_ , right there…”

He feels Gerard laugh breathlessly, wide and open mouthed and loose as Grant fucks into him and Frank kisses him again, can’t keep his mouth off him really. Gerard’s cock is grinding up against him with every thrust of Frank’s hips, getting slick precome all over his belly and his dick, and Frank’s in much the same state. Gerard’s fingers have found exactly the right spot and Frank’s leaking steadily in a glistening trail from the head of his dick, throbbing and twitching with only the slick glide of Gerard’s belly to rut against, but fuck, it’s fucking perfect. Gerard’s mouth is wide and shining when Frank stops kissing it, moaning steady and constant and his dick is hard as a rock, and Frank knows it won’t be long now. He mouths messily along Gerard’s jaw and down his throat, muffling himself in the pale, tender skin, and bites down desperately as he feels his own orgasm coming. Gerard cries out and the hand he’s been using to clutch at Frank with comes up to grab Frank’s head, holding him close and baring the beautiful stretch of his throat for Frank’s teeth.

“Pull his hair,” Grant says gruffly, and Frank does without thought or question, tangling his fingers in the soft strands and tugging as he sucks, then worries the flesh between his teeth a little harder. The noise Gerard makes is out of this world fucking good, his eyes fluttering and his face totally blissed out, and before Frank realises it’s happening he feels Gerard’s dick twitch against him and the hot rush of his come spills over Frank’s fingers and cock.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, breathless and awed as Gerard trembles between their bodies and jerks with each of Grant’s firm thrusts. Even as he’s still gasping, Gerard scrambles to get a hand on Frank, fingers grabbing blindly for his dick. Frank’s so fucking close that he doesn't need any kind of finesse, and he ruts into Gerard’s clumsy touch and back onto the fingers buried in his ass and comes all over Gerard’s hip and thigh.

“You boys…” Grant says, his voice tight. He’s close - how couldn’t he be, it must have felt incredible to feel Gerard coming around him. Frank can’t wait to feel it for himself.

“Oh, you boys,” Grant says again, but this time it shakes and trails off into a moan. Frank glances up, away from Gerard’s expression, to see Grant watching him through slitted eyes. Frank slides his fingers over Grant’s hand where he’s hanging onto Gerard’s hip then on up his arm, and he sees the moment Grant’s orgasm hits him. His eyes flutter and and his forehead creases, and he buries himself deep in Gerard’s body, rocking deep and digging his fingers into the other man’s soft hips. Grant leans his head, damp with perspiration, against the back of Gerard’s neck, and holds him close as he comes inside him with a deep, satisfied sigh.

While the three of them are still panting for breath in a tangle of limbs, Gerard bundled up between them, Grant gets up on his elbows to look down at Gerard’s flushed, beautiful face. He’s far more composed than either of them, flushed and smiling warmly. He touches one red cheek and strokes his thumb against the corner of Gerard’s mouth, swollen from the ferocity of Frank’s kisses.

“I realise we never explained properly,” he says quietly, voice rough. “But this-” he gestures between the three of them, “-is something Frank and I want, very much.”

Frank nods when Gerard looks at him, wriggling closer to press a kiss to his shoulder. “Mhmm. I told you before, right, that everything was okay?”

Gerard doesn't say anything, but Grant doesn't seem overly concerned. He cups the side of Gerard’s face, and the younger man leans into it automatically.

“Not _just_ this,” he elaborates. Frank lets his hand play around making patterns on Gerard’s chest, just above his heart, feeling the gentle rise and fall of it as he breathes. “Although this was- _is_ incredible. Everything else, too. Tonight’s dinner, that was all for you… both of you.” Frank feels Gerard’s breath catch as the gravity of what Grant is asking him finally seems to set in.

Frank leans back up to kiss Gerard’s mouth, feeling Grant’s thumb beneath his lips.

“A Gerard is for life, not just for Christmas,” he says, quirking a smile, and Gerard snorts elegantly.

“Me?” He asks dumbly, looking between the two of them with big, earnest eyes like he can’t believe his luck. “But… why?”

Frank’s jaw drops, and he looks at Grant. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Gerard…” Grant starts slowly. “You realise Frank here is in love with you?”

Gerard’s face says that no, no he really doesn't. Frank’s face probably says the same thing, but his heart… his heart swells happily.

“You boys…” Grant says, shaking his head fondly. “What am I going to do with you?” His eyes shift back to Gerard and he brushes the hair off Gerard’s forehead gently.

“It’s not just Frank who’s rather taken with you, either,” Grant tells him. Gerard’s blush deepens and Frank hooks their calves together. It presses them together from chest to knee, Frank’s soft dick nestled against Gerard’s hip, and it feels… good. Warm and comforting and right, like this was how the three of them were always supposed to be.

Gerard must feel it too, because he smiles tentatively and says in a small voice, “Okay…”

Grant’s answering grin is blinding, and Gerard’s smile gets brighter, grinning with all his tiny little teeth. Frank tickles the soft part of his waist and Gerard giggles, wriggling in between their bodies until Grant quiets him with a kiss, and Gerard melts into the sheets.

“Anyway, now that that little matter is resolved,” Grant says, once he’s kissed Gerard breathless and Frank feels like he might be able to go another round just from watching. “I must admit, I have another reason for inviting you here, Gerard, but I didn’t want to mention it first and make you feel like you had to accept our… invitation in return. You remember the internship we talked about?”

Gerard’s face goes white as a sheet, but Grant doesn’t seem to notice.

“I asked around at work and showed a few of your sketches to a couple of the curators I met with over dinner last week. I hope that wasn’t too out of line.” Grant says. Gerard whimpers, and Frank squeezes him gently, already smiling. He knows Grant wouldn’t have brought it up if it wasn’t good news, and now he understands why Grant was so insistent that Frank send him photos of Gerard’s doodles instead of just bringing them over..

“They’d like you to bring your portfolio in,” Grant tells him, smiling warmly. Gerard’s jaw drops.

“Are you serious?” He asks, his voice going all high-pitched. “They want to meet me?”

Grant nods. “I’ve got to be honest. They loved your drawing style and your use of color, but they both agreed that they’ve got a lot of artists already on board.”

Frank feels Gerard sag in his arms, and Grant must feel the same thing because he tips Gerard’s chin up to look at him, then taps his forehead with one finger before he continues. “It’s that mind they were really interested in.”

Gerard blinks, and Grant leans in to kiss him gently.

“When I started telling them about some of the ideas you’ve shared with me, the deathly marching band and the masked vigilantes and the children with superpowers, _that_ was when they really started paying attention. They have plenty of artists already, like I said, but good writers? _That’s_ where they think they’ll have something for you. They’d like to see a couple of issue arcs and character plans, if you’d be interested in that?

Frank feels Gerard’s body tense in his arms as he draws a long breath in and holds it. He looks like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, like he’s been given the world on a platter, and all of a sudden he’s nodding rapidly and struggling to sit up.

“Yeah! Yes, totally, I- I’ve got, fuck, I’ve got sketches and notes, and, and I can totally flesh them out and make them better, maybe add some color to the designs, and I could show them-”

Frank can see Gerard’s brain whirling out of control already, so he grabs him by the sides of the face and kisses him quiet, holding him fast as Gerard mumbles against his mouth until he finally gives in to it and lets Frank’s tongue inside. Frank rolls onto his back and pulls Gerard between his thighs, and when Frank whispers what he wants into Gerard’s ear, Gerard shudders all over and sinks his teeth into Frank’s neck with a low whine. Frank spits out a curse and gets his hands in Gerard’s hair, and they fuck just like that, Gerard’s face buried in Frank’s neck, Frank arching into him and meeting his hips stroke for stroke. Grant lets them have the moment to themselves, stretching out on the bed next to them and listening as Gerard gets more and more mouthy as he gets close, muttering things like, “fuck, Frankie, feels so fuckin’ good,” and “s’better than I ever imagined.” Frank comes all over Gerard’s stomach with a grunt, imagining Gerard sprawled out on his bed with his hand around his cock, gasping Frank’s name as he loses it.

\---

Frank looks around him with wide, excited eyes. There are people fucking _everywhere_ , pouring in through the doors dressed in all kinds of weird and wonderful outfits. He sees a traditional Spiderman hanging out with Chell in her orange jumpsuit complete with a pretty fucking realistic portal gun next to The Powerpuff Girls, and behind them there’s a Captain America carrying a teeny-tiny Iron Man followed by what looks like a cross between Snow White and a fucking White Walker. Frank has never been to a Comicon in his _life_ but now, with Gerard and Grant around, he realises he’ll probably be coming every year for the _rest of_ it. Frank grins at the prospect. Grant is hiding out at the moment, but Gerard’s hanging onto Frank’s hand tightly and tugging him through the crowds, excitedly pointing out costumes and booths. Frank is happy to follow, letting Gerard’s enthusiasm carry him along.

It’s been two mad fucking years. The Monday after their little dinner date, Grant had taken Gerard into the DC headquarters in Brooklyn and introduced him to the top bods. They’d asked to meet the week after, but Grant had pushed it up, because Gerard had already been freaking out about it and they both knew he’d go into some kind of meltdown if they didn’t get it over with quickly. They had, of course, loved him, and Grant told Frank later that as soon as Gerard got talking, his nervousness had vanished and he was absolutely fantastic. They’d put Gerard to work straight away with a group of other writers, and the single-issue comics he worked on grew in popularity quickly enough that it was only natural to let him get his teeth into something more meaty and pull together a team to work on one of his own ideas. Frank had wondered out loud why Gerard and Grant weren’t working together, and while Grant told him he would absolutely love the chance to work with Gerard, he wanted to give him a chance to make it on his own. He had complete faith that Gerard could do it with his ideas and talent and dedication, and he didn’t want anyone to be able to look at their relationship and claim Gerard was getting special treatment. It wasn’t like they were blatant about it, but they weren’t about to hide it away like something dirty and wrong, so it was bound to come out eventually.

The first issue of _Umbrella Academy_ was released that fall, with Gerard’s name emblazoned on the cover and a little dedication inside that made Frank’s heart clench.

_For Frank. For everything._

He’d kissed Gerard’s breath away when the other man came into the store that afternoon, and Gerard had grinned brightly and wrapped his arms around Frank’s neck. He still worked at the store over the weekend as well as any events they put on, but now that Gerard was getting an actual paycheck from DC every month, he’d cut back on his hours heavily. Frank had automatically taken over Gerard’s role and head office had been more than happy to sign off the promotion - and pay rise! - so long as they didn’t have to send anyone down there and train up someone new. They’d even allowed them to get a part-timer in on the money they weren’t now paying Gerard, so four hours per day and five days a week Frank worked with a sweet kid named Tyler who had dreams of making it in music. Frank could relate, and although he wasn’t Gerard, they still got on well enough that going to work wasn’t a chore. More often than not Gerard would wander in late in the morning with coffee and lunch anyway, and then hole up in the break room to work on whatever his next deadline was until Frank came in for his break to join him. After the first time Tyler had walked in on them, Gerard in Frank’s lap and Frank’s mouth on his neck with his hands up his shirt, he’d learned to stay on the shop floor during Frank’s breaks unless the building was on fire or the zombie apocalypse happened.

 _Umbrella Academy_ was released as a fully bound trade seven months later and Frank had, naturally, given it pride of place in the store. Gerard had blushed deeply, but hadn't made Frank move it. The call itself had come a month or so later, when they were just beginning to realise how popular Gerard’s book was. Gerard’s agent - he had an agent now! - at Dark Horse had started the call by asking how long it might be before he could turn in a storyboard of ideas for a second book. Frank had been there when he picked up the phone, and Gerard had been squeezing his hand so hard his knuckles went white. He’d quickly put the call onto speaker, so Frank had heard the next part for himself - an invite to San Diego Comic Con. Gerard had almost broken the bones in Frank’s fingers, but he’d kept his cool and graciously accepted, hung up the phone, then screeched into a cushion and grabbed Frank around the waist, burying his face in the other man’s stomach. Frank had laughed with delight and hung on just as tightly, grabbing Gerard’s phone from him to call Grant and share the good news.

And now… Here they are. Gerard squeaks and points into the crowd, and Frank has to stand up on his tiptoes before he can see it. He immediately rushes over with his phone out, and taps the person on the shoulder.

“Hi!” He says brightly, grinning so wide it feels like his face might just snap in two. “You’re Rumour, right? Great costume!”

The girl smiles and nods, striking a pose as Frank snaps a photo. Gerard gawks stupidly next to him as Frank thanks her and pulls him away.

“Dude!” Frank stage whispers, beyond excited now. “They’re dressed as _your characters_. How fucking cool is that?!”

Gerard’s awkwardness fades away again now it’s just the two of them, and he giggles. It’s a little high pitched and insane, but Frank loves it. He’s still holding Frank’s hand tightly, and Frank kisses him sweetly on the mouth, right there in front of everyone, and nobody gives them a second glance. He wonders how long this anonymity is going to last now that _Umbrella Academy vol. 2: as yet untitled_ is in the works and there’s talk of getting Gerard’s face out there by arranging some book signings and video interviews that they can share online. He even has a panel - an honest-to-God _panel_ \- booked with Grant this afternoon. It’s the first time they’ll be doing anything work-related together, and it had actually been at DC’s request, not through any ideas of their own. They’d been given the go-ahead to announce their latest venture at the panel, and Grant had handed the opportunity straight over to Gerard, so rather than freaking out about it, Gerard was bubbling with excitement. This afternoon he’ll be announcing a brand new run of _Doom Patrol_ , the comic he’d been reading since he was a teenager, with himself and Grant at the helm, and Frank already knows that the panel attendees are going to be excited as fuck.

They wander through the crowds for a while snapping photos and browsing the merch on sale, but before long it’s obvious to Frank that Gerard is starting to feel twitchy and uncomfortable. They head away from the main stands and into Artists’ Alley, which is quieter than the main convention hall, and Gerard spies Gabriel chatting with a couple of convention goers dressed as Cass and Harley Quinn (totally unrelated, Gerard tells him). Gerard waits patiently until they’re finished, then slips behind the safety of the table and pulls up a chair. It isn’t long before Gabriel is introducing Gerard to the fans who visit his table, and apparently word spreads quickly in this place because faster than Frank can blink, there’s a line of kids waiting to meet him. Frank is kind of blown away by it, and impossibly proud of the man - _one of_ the men - he’s in love with.

 _So much for anonymity_ , he thinks with a wry smile, but can’t bring himself to actually be annoyed by that. He watches Gerard draw for a while as he talks, sweet little doodles and sketches of whatever the kids ask him for, and the familiar act of drawing seems to distract him from the discomfort he usually feels around strangers because he’s chatting easily to them, talking about the characters he’s created and the people he’s met and the thing that comes up the most - how fucking _grateful_ he is for each and every one of them. Frank knows every person there, kid or adult, must leave that table feeling special and loved and appreciated, because he feels it for them just listening to Gerard. He’s amazed by how _good_ Gerard is at this, and he knows that as long as Gerard can hang onto this feeling then the panel is going to be a breeze.

Frank hears Grant coming in the soft murmur that starts up and gets louder the closer Grant gets to them. He’s just in time because Gerard’s hand is starting to cramp, and he won’t listen to Frank when he tells him he’s allowed to take a break. Grant coaxes Gerard away from the table, much to the chagrin of the line of people who had seen Grant coming, but Grant just uses it as an opportunity to promote their panel later, apologises for stealing Gerard away, and wraps one arm around him and the other around Frank, guiding them away from the artists’ tables and out into the lobby.

“Hello, boys,” he smiles, once they’re away from the rush and the noise. There are still people milling around out here, but it’s nothing like it is inside the convention hall or the corridors outside the rooms the panels are being held in.

Frank grins wide and gets up on his toes, tugging Grant down for a kiss. Grant dips to meet him halfway, then turns to Gerard and brings his cramping hand up to his lips.

“Take a break when you need to, love,” he tells him, kissing his fingers then starting to massage his palm. Gerard’s eyes flutter even as he opens his mouth to argue.

“I just wanna talk to them all and like, tell them how much their support means to me, y’know?”

Grant nods in understanding, rubbing his thumb in even little circles around the ball of Gerard’s thumb. “I know. Believe me, I know. But you can’t give them more than you can spare to lose. Art’s about sharing, not giving, remember? Share what you can, but don’t give all of yourself away.” He pulls Gerard in close and presses a kiss to the tangles of his hair, wild and free where he’d been running his hand through it as he drew. “Don’t let yourself hurt, not for anyone.”

Gerard nods against his chest and hugs him back tightly around the waist, and Frank hears a muffled, “okay,” from inside the folds of Grant’s shirt.

Grant smiles and releases Gerard, stepping back just enough to see his face. “Are you excited for our panel this afternoon?”

Gerard nods immediately, as does Frank, grinning.

“Well, before we go and prepare, I’m glad I caught the two of you together, because… I have something I wanted to give you...” Frank hears something in Grant’s voice and, when he looks up at his face, he notices the other man looks… nervous? It’s not a look he’s familiar with so it’s impossible to tell for sure, but there’s something shining in his eyes that looks almost unsure of himself, which, in all honesty, isn’t an emotion Frank thought Grant was capable of. Grant dips his fingers into the pocket of his shirt and pulls out two shining, silver keys.

Frank frowns, because the hotel they’re staying in uses key cards, and he’s had a key for Grant’s place for almost a year now, so what is that one for? Admittedly he never really uses his key unless Grant has his hands full and Frank’s trying to be helpful, but the sentiment that he can come and go as he pleases is still there. Gerard doesn't seem any more clued in, and Grant holds the keys out on his palm.

“I know we all have keys already, but I was hoping that these… could be a bit more special than the keys I’ve already given you both.” He swallowed and looked at them, and they looked straight back. Frank smiled encouragingly and took Gerard’s hand, linking their fingers together. He sees a few people glancing their way, but thankfully nobody interrupts them and Grant keeps talking.

“I’ve wanted to ask for a while, but… I don’t know why I haven’t, honestly.” Grant says. “I’ve been carrying these around for weeks and I’m tired of waiting now. I have so much space, I really don’t need three bedrooms all to myself and… and there’s plenty of space for an art studio or an office and somewhere for practising music and… and it feels so empty when you both go home so… so I was hoping that these could maybe… replace the keys you have to your own apartments and… you could move in with me?”

Grant is looking between them both but not really _at_ them, his eyes flickering from Gerard to Frank and back again almost frantically. Frank feels himself grinning as it sinks in for him, and he sees Gerard mirroring his expression on his own face. Frank’s the first to react, throwing his arms around Grant and yanking Gerard in too, because he can already see the acceptance in Gerard’s eyes without him needing to say a word. Grant laughs with relief, loud and uncaring of who might hear, and he holds them both tightly to him.

“My beautiful, beautiful boys,” he murmurs, the smile audible in his voice. Frank pulls back just enough to grin brightly at Gerard, and the two of them press kisses to Grant’s cheeks in tandem.

**Author's Note:**

> Other credits and notes:  
> ‘Keith’ and ‘Jeff’ @GoodReads, Hilary Goldstein @IGN & Joe Gordon @Forbidden Planet for their words on, and reviews of, Grant’s work. Bryan Boyd Blankfield @Penn State ETDA for his paper on animal rights. MTV article 2629272 with Gerard talking about the Killjoys ‘verse. Wikipedia for the paraphrased summary of Arkham Horror, because I have a huge love/hate relationship with the game but I also SUCK at summaries. I also took MAJOR artistic liberty with the Prospect Park Halloween Haunted Walk. Sorry, not sorry.


End file.
